


Rabbit Blood

by Hazbian



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alastor pretends to be allosexual to get what he wants, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Biting, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Contracts, Darkfic, Deathfic, Demons, Dubcon Kissing, Ethics, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Fictional Religion & Theology, Headcanon, M/M, NSFW, Novel, Power Imbalance, Power Play, Predator/Prey, References to Drugs, Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:53:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 51
Words: 108,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25148749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hazbian/pseuds/Hazbian
Summary: Leslie is new to Hell, arriving shortly after an extermination. With no idea why she's here, she checks into the so-called Hazbin Hotel in hopes of redeeming herself. Unfortunately, Leslie catches the eye of one of the co-founders, Alastor, and finds herself subject to his darker predilections. She alternates between the pursuit of absolution, and indulging in Alastor's games.I've completed the story as a first draft, so I'll be releasing new chapters regularly. At the time of writing, the HH pilot and part of the prequel comic have been released. I've used these things, as well as supplemental materials (Q&As with VivziePop, HuniCast streams) to inform the plot; however, I will be using my own ideas too.This story is also on Wattpad and Fanfiction.net, and I plan to post regular chapter images to Wattpad and to my Twitter, linked below! Thank you for reading this far!Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/story/222553455-rabbit-bloodFanfiction.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13566831/1/Rabbit-BloodTwitter: https://twitter.com/Hazbian1
Relationships: Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)/Original Character(s), Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 75
Kudos: 118





	1. The Key To Salvation

Leslie didn’t recall much more than the moment of impact. A Friday morning, just after Christmas. Waiting outside a library building for someone, she grew impatient, crossing the road for a coffee and some banana bread. Suddenly, BAM! - struck by a 2019 Fiat 500L. 

_ Shit,  _ she thought, as she bounced off the car hood, then flew gracelessly and landed on the road. No memories of the pain, broken bones or the like. Only blackness. She guessed the car was going fast enough to turn her brain into oatmeal.

She woke up in Hell.

Nothing but the clothes on her back, the items in her pockets, and a body that wasn’t hers. 

Hell.

The first night was the hardest. She ran through the streets in desperation, looking for someone who cared: someone who could tell her what she’d done to deserve this, and what to do next. But there were no answers. There were only tough-talking demons and imps. One of them tried to mug her - she hoped - and Leslie barely escaped. 

Day Two was spent in various alleyways. She took her panic attacks and crying fits on the move, too scared to stay in one place. The body she occupied was around four foot ten - a foot shorter than before. It had fine, short fur; long floppy ears in place of her wavy hair; disproportionately strong legs, and a tail. She couldn’t stand to look at the beast she’d become. 

Then came five days of moving from place to place, trying to figure out a plan. She slept in toilet cubicles for only single hours at a time, to reduce the risk of theft or mindless violence. The women, she quickly learned, could be as bad as the men, so she kept her distance. She raided dumpsters for food, hoping nobody would mind. 

At the end of her first week, Leslie was exhausted, alienated, and in dire need of cash. She walked through Pentagram City, asking every business owner if help was needed. Saturday, more than a week after her death, she scored a low-paying job, waitressing at Hades Bar and Grill. “Five bucks an hour,” the manager said, flashing gold teeth, “take it or leave it.”

“Listen,” Leslie said, trying to hoist herself onto a bar-stool crafted for taller demons, “I’ll take it, but five isn’t enough. I don’t have a place to live. This’ll barely cover a crappy hotel room!”

He hooted with laughter. “Hotel! That’s a good one. You just passing through?”

Some drunkard who was slumped over the bar said, “I mean, there is one. Miss Thing’s running it. The rehabilitation station.”

“Five’s the best I can do, Sugartits.”

“Wait, wait,” Leslie said, giving up on the stool. “There’s a… what, hotel for rehabilitation?”

The barfly nodded. “Yeah, Lucifer’s kid wants to get people into Heaven. But it’s not free bed and board.”

Her eyes widened at the possibility of going to Heaven. “Is it busy there? They fully booked?”

Now the man looked annoyed at her questioning. “Fuck, man, I dunno. Everyone thinks it’s a stupid idea.”

Sleepy from the drink, he crumpled over, as Leslie deliberated to the sounds of conversation and snooker. It’d be a shame to take a job in this dive bar if there was any chance of redemption. However, she  _ would _ need money to check in. 

“Five,” she agreed, “and I get to sleep in the cellar.”

o - o - o - o - o

It took Leslie three weeks to save what she needed. What a rough three weeks. Her waitressing job was thankless, worse than her original stint from college. The floor was sticky, the music shit and the patrons handsy. Leslie figured her backside was a lovely blackish-blue from constant pinching.

She never got used to her new body. When she strip-washed at the cellar sink, her fur kicked up rivers of soap-suds. It clung damply to her when she was done. Horrible. 

Each night, when she had time to think, she remembered the people she left behind. Her parents, her sister Amelia, Karlton: they must miss her terribly. What was the last thing she said to Karl? She couldn’t remember. Probably it was an argument, and now Leslie was dead, buried, and in Hell.

This was so fucked.

o - o - o - o - o

Finally, Leslie hiked to the so-called Happy Hotel with her belongings; the few things she brought with her in death, plus some clothes, were packed into a small duffle bag, fastened tight. She kept most of the money she earned from Hades in her bra.

The place was hard to miss. The main body of the building was blockish and sturdy, widest at the ground floor and slimming out as it met the sky. There were ten to fifteen floors, and more arched windows than she’d ever seen in her life. Stained glass and gold trim suggested a former magnificence, yet the exterior was screaming for repair. 

Certain elements made no sense. Turrets sprouted from the dilapidated building like mushrooms. She saw a steam locomotive rusting away on the second floor (just above the awning at the entrance); a wrecked ship was smashed into the other side of the building, and an entire merry-go-round comprised part of a leaning tower with extra rooms. It was, no question, the strangest architecture she’d seen in her short life.

Cautiously, she made her approach. Leslie had never checked into a hotel - as an adult, anyway. She was a small-town teacher who only traveled to attend other people’s weddings. Once inside, she stood, confused, looking for the front desk. It turned out to be doubling as a bar on the left side of the lobby, along with a card table and a smattering of chairs and stools. 

Behind the bar, there was a surly cat-like beast with large red wings, slumped over in a drunken stupor. Leslie sighed, knowing already the ‘desk’ would be too tall for her. She hated being so short. It brought back unpleasant memories of childhood, stretching on tiptoes to address the ice-cream truck driver, or raising her arm desperately in class, only to be lost in a sea of longer arms. 

Her initial plan was to stand on her duffle bag and shimmy onto a bar-stool from there, to meet the gaze of the winged cat. However, she encountered a gangling demon with spines emerging from his back, and with a smile, he introduced himself as a bellboy and took the duffle. 

“Oh,” she said. “Thank you.” 

Leslie turned and hopped on the spot like a bunny, her hand slamming on the call bell. The receptionist shot up in alarm, making her jump, which in turn, startled him back.

“What the fuck?”

She hung by her fingertips from the desk. “I'm sorry! I'm just here to check in.”

He grumbled, shaking his head. “I've gotta get rid of that bell. Fucking shell shock, every time.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Ah, pipe down.” The cat-demon straightened, with the sort of pained squint that suggested a migraine – or, more likely, a hangover. “Just gimme your name and I'll do the thing.”

“Leslie Nicholson.” For the first time, she saw his name – ʞsnH – on a badge pinned upside-down to his bow-tie. An odd place to put it, but there was no way to attach it to his bare, fuzzy chest, so it made sense. While he booted up a pre-war computer the size of a small microwave and punched in her details, Leslie took the wad of cash from her bra and tossed it to him. “For the first week,” she said.

“Alright, you're in Room 42. Fill out this form,” he added, shoving a clipboard across the desk.

“Right now?”

“Yeah, right now. Not made of fucking clipboards.”

She took it and spun, expecting to see the bellboy, but he was conspicuous by his absence. “Er.”

“What now?”

“Did you see where he went?”

“Where who went? I can barely see you.”

Leslie swallowed nervously. “There was a guy... I think a member of staff? Said he'd take my bag.”

“Nah, we don't employ nobody like that.”

She stood there, stunned by the ease with which she had been tricked. “Then he took my… He stole it.”

“Sucks.”

Leslie’s eyes darted to all corners of the lobby, searching for that demon, that... opportunistic prick. No sign. When she turned back to Husk, he’d resumed his sleepy sprawl across the desk. 

“We've got to do something!”

“Nothin' I can do. You got scammed. Welcome to Hell.”

For a moment, Leslie was frozen, quite incredulous at his indifference. Then, gripping the clipboard tight, she stormed off at a determined pace, sweeping the whole of the ground floor. Most demons ignored her as she passed by. Unable to find the thief, she ran back to the entrance, to see if he was on the street. No sign.

_ Stupid, stupid, stupid!  _ Leslie felt like throwing the clipboard, but there was no dignity in that. Still furious, she marched back in, fell onto a couch in the lobby and buried her face in her palms. What a horrible day this was turning out to be. Her clothes, wallet, her phone and her charger... gone forever! All because she was foolish enough to presume the hotel was a place of good moral standing. 

Well, she was here now. Better to just carry on and fill out the damn form. Blinking back frustrated tears, she completed the top section. Nothing but the basics: her name, date of birth, availability. However, the section underneath was going to be tricky. 

“Something the matter?”

Leslie jumped once again, hearing the low-fidelity buzz of a talking radio right next to her ear. There was a man poking around the corner, a man in a dark red suit who wore a monocle and a wide, pointy-toothed grin. His hair was fire-engine red, turning brown as it graduated to two soft points at the top, and again where it hung loosely around his face. It was the kind of cut Leslie might have laughed at in different circumstances.

“Jesus,” she said. 

He responded, still in that radio voice, with that strange bold energy. “Ha ha. Not quite! Are you crying?”

Leslie swiveled as far as she could, craning her neck. “Er... it’s nothing. Got mugged on the way in. My fault. Don't worry about it.”

“How is that your fault?”

“I thought he worked here? Stupid, I know. New to Hell. Hopefully not staying.”

“Ah! Well, there’s a lesson there. You'd be wise to keep your wits about you, even in a place like this! Never trust anyone.”

She nodded courteously and went back to her form, seeing the awkward section again. When she looked, Husk had disappeared from the front desk: nobody to go to for help. 

So she stood, going after the man in red. “Hey,” she said, catching him up. “Do you...? Oh, wow, you're tall--” for he was, almost twice as tall as she, “--do you know where that Husk guy went? I need help with something.”

There again was that grin, like the curve of a sickle. It never left his face, and hinted at some dastardly intent. “No, but perhaps I can assist. Alastor; co-founder of this fine establishment.” He held out his hand for her to shake. Leslie did so, cautiously. 

“OK,” she said. He had a firm grip. “Wait, but how do I know that?”

“Already taking my advice. You're a fast learner! What do they call you?”

“Leslie.”

“Leslie. Well, I’m in several portraits around here, and besides, my reputation is well-established! Ask anyone. But for now, what is the problem?”

After a cursory glance at the paintings, she shrugged and held her form aloft. “So there's this bit here about the reason for your damnation into Hell... Can I leave this blank?”

He ignored the form altogether. His smile turned playful. “Denial!”

“No, not denial,” she said, realizing how it sounded, “I just don't know why I’m here.”

“My dear, rarely, if ever, does a sinner come to Hell from an accumulation of smaller, meaningless sins. It’s usually a couple of more serious ones. I suspect you know.”

She took a step back; the smile made her more and more nervous, as though he was about to coax some awful secret out of her. Technically, perhaps, that was the purpose of this exchange. 

“Actually, I  _ don’t _ know,” she said. “Is it the swearing? Am I here because I said 'cunt' on occasion?”

Alastor chuckled. This affectation of sounding like an AM radio was not confined to his voice alone. The airwaves around them crackled with interference, and somewhere, she heard canned laughter.

“Sorry,” she said, “bit inappropriate. I just met you.”

“Amusing you think I’m unused to profanity. Leave the form blank, but let me know when you ‘remember’ the cause of your damnation.”

“I'm telling you, I don't know what it is.”

“If you’re lying, it'll be quite a challenge to redeem you! But it's your funeral!”

With that, Alastor magicked a cane into existence – a long thing with a vintage-style microphone at the top – then trotted across the foyer, round a corner and out of sight. Leslie stood dumbly, wondering what the hell just happened. There came a groan from beneath the reception desk, and Husk emerged, rubbing his head. Leslie quickly understood what happened. Doing as Alastor said, she completed the form, leaving the sin section blank. 

That Radio Demon was something else, Leslie thought. He was even weirder than most sinners in this godforsaken place, which was saying something. Alastor moved and acted with a certain self-possession, with flourishes and aplomb. Rather villain-like, really... enough to make her wonder who he was, and what he was capable of.


	2. The Radio Demon

_ No luggage to carry at least, _ she thought grumpily as she climbed the stairs.

Leslie turned the key in the lock of door 42, at the end of a long corridor. The narrow room she emerged into was small, yet cosy. From where she stood, there was a single bed to the right, a bedside table, and a tall chest of drawers to her left. Finally she set eyes on a chair close to the outside-facing wall, where a mullioned window looked onto Pentagram City. Like most of the hotel, there was scuffed wallpaper, a color scheme of red, and a strong apple motif. 

She took the time to examine the room for recording devices, or cockroaches, or perhaps some dusty old dildo left by a previous guest. It seemed to be fine. 

What now? Leslie didn’t feel like going downstairs to socialize, not after her second mugging incident in a month.

Sleep?

_ Sleep. _

o - o - o - o - o

Half an hour later, Leslie woke to a jaunty knock on the door. When she answered, a woman in pastel clothes and an eyepatch was there, carrying a loose-leaf folder in one arm. Leslie had never seen a woman with an eyepatch before.

“Hey there. Leslie, right? I’m Vaggie, I’m one of the founders and managers. Came to give you a couple things, since our front desk is a fucking shambles…”

“Oh, thank you,” Leslie said. She backed into the room, allowing Vaggie to enter.

Vaggie flicked through her papers, at last plucking out the ones she wanted. “So, we run plenty of different workshops around here, which’ll help you ease out of your sin. We do group talking therapy, skills-building, drug rehab, and some other things as well. They repeat a lot on the timetable, but that’s because people need to work - and, obviously it depends what your sins and vices are.”

Leslie nodded slowly. “What if I don’t know what they are?”

“Huh. We’ll have to figure that out, won’t we? It’s…” Vaggie’s tone became softer, more confidential. “Look, if you’re embarrassed to admit it, I get that, but it’s a necessary hurdle to clear. For everyone.”

“I don’t know what I did,” Leslie said. 

“Suit yourself,” Vaggie said, glancing at the next sheet for reference. “So on top of workshops, there are generalized teaching sessions. You’ll be with a group, and stay with them until you’re redeemed, or check out, whichever comes first. Group 1 meets tomorrow - early - so I can introduce you and some others then?”

“Sure.” Leslie took the papers from Vaggie and tossed them gently on the bed. “Thank you,” Leslie said. “I can’t believe it. Been here an hour and I already met two co-founders.”

”You move fast,” Vaggie said with an amused smile that became affectionate. “Lovely, isn’t she?”

“Er… no, I meant the super-tall one. Wassisname.”

A sudden dark expression. “Alastor?”

“Yeah.”

Vaggie glanced behind her and closed the door. “Listen,” she said, “I don't want to scare you, but you should stay away from him.”

“What? Why? He's helping run the place, isn't he?”

Vaggie made a few throat sounds of strangled admittance. “In a way, but  _ I _ never wanted him here.”

“So whose idea was it?”

“It’s a long story,” said Vaggie. “Obviously we could’ve used Lucifer’s help, but he’s not totally on board. The hotel was almost DOA when Alastor turned up. Now, not so much. He has enough ill-gotten power to ensure this place prospers, but he doesn't actually want the guests to succeed. Remember, seeing people try and fail to self-improve is how he gets his kicks.”

Leslie frowned. “OK, got it, he’s bad. Well, maybe the end justifies the means, as long as people  _ do _ get redeemed here.”

“That's the idea. Just... don't trust the guy. Keep out of his way,” Vaggie warned. “You have no idea what he's capable of... how many enemies he toppled to rank among the most powerful demons in Hell.”

“Wait, wait, back up. The most... what?”

Vaggie cleared her throat. “Alastor was a mortal soul once, like you,” she said. “No-one knows how long he stayed in Hell under the surface, biding his time, and nobody knows exactly where he got his… abilities. But one day, he began to violently claw his way up the chain of command, even our hellborn overlords. He’s wrought unprecedented destruction, and the most disturbing part is that he broadcast it, for all of us to see.”

She was quite the storyteller; the air almost shimmered as Vaggie finished her tale. “You saw this?” Leslie asked, eyes wide.

“Well, no. But you can find recordings of what he did, if you know who to ask.”

“Fuck.”

“Exactly.”

“So...” Leslie said, feeling suddenly cold. “What do I do if he's... if he's bothering me or whatever?”

“We can come up with something. He's dangerous, but he isn't stupid. Charlie is Lucifer’s daughter, after all. Nobody higher.”

“Oh. Of course. He wouldn't piss off the King of Hell.” Relief came rolling in like a warm blanket. 

“Right. So if he bothers you, come straight to me, and we'll work it out.” Vaggie gave her a smile. “Stay safe, OK?”

“Will do. Honestly, I thought he’d be respectable enough… if he was in the paintings in the hotel,” she explained.

“He’s what now?”

Leslie repeated herself, and Vaggie cursed in Spanish, then stormed off, ending the conversation.  _ Well, _ Leslie thought,  _ that was peculiar.  _ Alastor wasn’t meant to be in the paintings? What a weird prank, to include oneself in pictures through demonic trickery. 

She locked her door, shoving the armchair against it for good measure, before going back to sleep.

o - o - o - o - o

The following day, she woke at 9am to attend the meeting. Not exactly rising with the lark, but early enough to make her grumpy. She wondered what the other hellions in her group would be like. Maybe her trepidation was irrational; she was unlikely to come to harm under staff supervision. She also reasoned (charitably, perhaps) that anyone staying here was trying to better themselves, just like her.  _ You might even make a friend in this place, _ Leslie thought. 

She crept downstairs, holding her informational folder from Vaggie. Her stomach shrank when she saw Alastor trotting around the first floor, with the confident, superior air of a prison guard. All he needed was a set of keys to swing. 

Remembering what Vaggie said about Alastor’s dishonorable intentions, she scuttled past, keeping her head down and refusing to catch his eye. Leslie barged into the room up ahead, but stopped short of walking in. It was unoccupied, but full of cardboard boxes, cleaning equipment and other paraphernalia. 

“Whoops.”

She mustered her dignity and carried on, peering into the next room. Twelve chairs arranged in a circle, and a smattering of other demons. The co-owner and co-founder Charlie Magne was there, just as bright and radiant as she appeared in the portraits - where she was actually  _ supposed _ to be - and she spoke to another demon of great stature. He was unquestionably the tallest person Leslie had seen: a multi-limbed spidery demon in a striped suit jacket and shorts. She recognized him from somewhere or other.

Leslie was anxious to enter, not least because these two would tower over her to a ridiculous degree… but it had to be done. Into the circle she strolled, her shoulders back, her head high as before.

“Morning,” she said. “I’m here for the thing!”

“Hi!!” Charlie said. “Grab a pew. We’re just waiting for a few people!”

As Leslie took a seat, she saw in her periphery that Alastor lurked in the doorway, a far-away lean streak of oxblood and crimson. With a creeping horror, Leslie realized something. She actually wanted to look at him. Now that engaging him was off the table, it was somewhat desirable to do so. 

Vaggie would disapprove, of course. 

But she wanted to.

_ Oh no,  _ Leslie thought. _ We've been here before. Oh no, no, no.  _

She turned her attention to a loose piece of thread on the hem of her sweatshirt. She wound it around her finger, tightly, cutting off the blood supply.  _ Not today, Satan. Hover all you want; I will not look at you. _

Vaggie entered the room, and she took her place beside Charlie. The pair were close, Leslie could see. Of the two, Vaggie was the more serious, and Charlie, ever cheerful, seemed more comfortable beside her friend. The hotel guests assembled, and the meeting began.

“Thanks for coming!” Charlie said. “A few absences, but it’s early… and we have new people, so we should all get to know each other! I’ll start. My name is Charlie, my favorite food is stir fry-”

“Aaaaauuugh, fuck me sideways,” a nearby demon groaned, “not the icebreakers again-!”

“-and my goals are to rehabilitate sinners and solve the overpopulation before the next extermination!”

_ The next what?  _ Leslie thought.

Vaggie gestured to the tallest demon. “We’ll go clockwise,” she said. “Angel, go ahead.”

“Uh, OK,” Angel nodded, adjusting the downy fluff that spilled from the front of his jacket. “I’m Angel Dust, I like my Italian food, as you might guess… and, uh… it’d be nice not to work for a shitty overlord pimp. So, we’ll see if they’ll have me upstairs.” He broke into ironic laughter as he spoke the last sentence. A few demons joined in. 

“Less of that,” Vaggie warned, pulling a harpoon out of nowhere, and pointed it at the people laughing. “Next?”

The blueish demon beside Leslie, who had a row of knives stuck in his head to form a mohawk, introduced himself. “My name’s Kain. I don’t have a favorite food-”

“Doesn’t have to be food,” Charlie clarified.

“Whatever. I’m here out of morbid curiosity, mostly. That, and there’s a bar downstairs.”

Vaggie shook her head, as though the presence of a bar was a long-held regret that she carried with her at all times. Leslie realized it was her turn.

“My name’s Leslie,” she said, dropping the food thing altogether, “and I’ll do just about anything to get out of Hell, so… looking forward to being redeemed.”

She saw Charlie give her the thumbs up, pleased with her contribution. Then Leslie noticed that Kain was peering sidelong at her. “You look like a bunny,” he remarked.

She raised a solemn eyebrow. “Do I?”

“Yeah. Do you fuck like a bunny?”

Angel snickered, as Vaggie rapped the ground with her spear. “Hey, hey! Don’t be vulgar,” she ordered.

“It's fine,” said Leslie to Kain, eager to move along. “Think that if you want. I don't care.” The streak of red who lurked in the doorway folded his arms, but said nothing. 

The next demon was called Persephone, she liked burnt food, and was hoping to cure her sex addiction. Kain sat a little straighter, and the two waved at each other.

The three remaining demons presented themselves jointly: Lascivia, Plagueiss, and Greg. “We’re here so we don’t get smashed by this guy we know,” Lascivia admitted. “Not that absolution isn’t  _ great  _ and all, but we wanna be where the Radio Demon is.”

“Yeah. After what happened to Sir Pentious when he threatened the place, we figured…”

Leslie couldn’t help herself. “What happened to Sir Pendulous?” she asked.

“Pentious. Man, he got fucking minced. Him and all his eggs.”

“Uh.”

Neither Charlie nor Vaggie explained the incident, and Alastor only leaned against the doorframe, as the studio audience on his internal soundboard gave a modest round of applause. Leslie rolled her eyes, but honestly, if she had that obscure power, she’d use it to mess around too.

Funny, he was rather  _ boisterous _ for someone who’d flattened countless demons. 

Leslie’s stomach rumbled, and she told it to shut up. All this talk of favorite foods, mince and eggs was making her hungry. She tried to look busy for a second, shuffling her papers until the group lost interest, and when she looked up, the lurker had taken his leave already.

He’d be back.

“It’s nice you see this place as a sanctuary,” Charlie told the trio of demons, “but I’d feel happier if you attended further workshops. We can definitely reward good behavior, and we  _ can _ remove certain privileges for bad behavior. Not that we want to!” Charlie had a beaming positivity about her; like a Golden Retriever, eager to make friends. “Now, today I wanna tell you about the benefits of counseling. Starting today, you can have  _ individual _ counseling! We send a qualified member of staff to you, so nobody has to know you’re seeing them.”

“Yes,” Vaggie said. “We figured that was best; this way, no-one’s reputation gets hurt. If you need a session, come find us, or hand a note in at the front desk.”

Leslie was opposed to talking therapies, and wondered what she would even tell a counselor, or what she’d get out of it. Surely there was no reassurance to be had down here. They were all in the same boat, that boat being Las Vegas on fire.

It was quite obvious that redemption was her only hope.


	3. Quid Pro Quo

When the meeting ended, the guests scattered like cockroaches from a kitchen light. Angel Dust left so quickly that a small bag of something dropped, unnoticed, from his pocket on the way out. Leslie darted to retrieve the bag before anyone saw. It was a suspicious little powdery bundle, and no mistake. She stuffed it in her bra, deciding to hand it in later. Right now she wanted some breakfast.

Leslie turned a corner and, sooner than expected, bumped straight into Alastor again. As her nose met his suit jacket, the cologne he was wearing – fiery citrus and cedarwood – also made her acquaintance.

“Sorry! Sorry,” she said, moving to pass him, but he stopped her with a firm hand on her shoulder. 

“So,” he said, “you’re avoiding me now?”

Leslie shook him off. “Someone told me all about you,” she said.

“Ah.”

“Yep.”

The information didn't seem to bother him. “A reliable source, I hope! Wouldn't want to be misinformed!”

“Why are you talking to me?” she wanted to know.

“Because if you’re as squeaky-clean as you say – if you're here by accident – then you stand a _minute_ chance of being taken upstairs… and it’s more interesting to keep you downstairs. We must find out what you’re hiding!”

She stared. “You do want the guests to fail.”

“Indeed!” He leaned over her, an easy feat. “I'd like to ask you some questions,” he said.

“No thanks.” She walked away, only for him to appear before her in silhouette, then fully formed, as by some unknown power the different shades of red and grey flashed into place.

“How about a quid pro quo? You know what that is, don't you? Shake my hand, and whatever questions we ask each other, we’ll be bound to answer truthfully.” His eyes were on her, then the meeting room door. Perhaps he was looking out for Vaggie, but Leslie thought there was more to it. Alastor had a conspiratorial air, like he had secrets to impart.

She sighed. “How long?”

“Two minutes.”

“90 seconds,” she bargained.

He smiled, extending a gloved hand. “Deal.”

Leslie shook, before she could think too long about it. There was a flash of green light between them, and their surroundings flickered and changed. She felt a *whumph!* as the floor whipped away beneath her, and the next moment, she held Alastor's hand over a large, ornate wooden desk, in a different room entirely.

He let her go, settled into a comfortable desk chair, and gestured for her to sit in a smaller, less comfy chair suddenly behind her. 

“Christ!” She sat, peering round. The room was lined with bookcases; it was neither imposing, nor claustrophobic; neither sparse nor cluttered. “Where are we?”

“My office,” he replied, “and that counts as your first question! Now, who has been telling stories about me?”

“Vaggie.” Leslie clapped a hand over her mouth; the words came out before she could stop them. “What the fuck?”

“I told you. Your turn.”

She leaned forward. “What? Wait, wait, let me think. Why are you helping the hotel in the first place? Like, don't you have more interesting things to do?”

Alastor trailed a hand fondly along the desk, delighted to be interviewed in such a manner. “Oh, my own endeavors have left me bored to tears! I craved a challenge, and seeing young Charlie on the news, full of misplaced hope for her center for rehabilitation... It is just the kind of entertainment I need! Now then... what was the sin that brought you here?”

She rolled her eyes. “I told you, I don't know.”

“Hm. You were telling the truth. How irritating.”

Leslie almost laughed, for he didn't _look_ irritated. That smile of his never faltered. She paused, considering her next question. “Vaggie told me you toppled overlords,” she said. “Does that mean you killed them?”

Alastor shook his head. “The only way to kill a demon is with an angel’s weapon, and I’ve never possessed one. The overlords deserved what was coming to them, believe me!” 

“Right,” she responded. “If they're anything like you, maybe they deserved it.”

He ignored this insult. “Do you think,” Alastor said, “that with enough jogging of your memory, you’d know the reason for your damnation?” For the first time, his voice lost some of that characteristic old radio quality, and Leslie was unhealthily intrigued.

“Maybe?” she said. “Believe me, I want to know. But there might be a way to redeem myself without specific styles of improvement. I think I know this one, but why are you in Hell?”

“Murder.” His eyes glittered. “I sought out lone wanderers at night, then I killed them and brought them home for dinner.”

“Jesus.” Now, Leslie felt a torrent of disgust. Maybe she could have overlooked his violent crusade for power, down here among the demons, where it didn't matter, where survival might force a demon’s hand. But now she saw him in a new context. Now he was the type to snuff out an _innocent_ life, and do something horrible with the body, and that was altogether more evil. Even the way he said it was disgusting. So straightforward, like he was discussing what he had for breakfast. On top of all this, she felt disgusted at herself, for giving him the benefit of the doubt until now.

Anyway, he was asking his next question. “You didn’t correct the man who called you a whore. Why?”

She scowled, but had to answer. “I’m not a whore, as it happens, but no-one needs to know who I really am. Better to fly under the radar until I can get out of here. Why do you-?” She stopped herself, rephrasing it as a non-question. “I don't know why you care, honestly.”

“I make it a point to know my compeers,” Alastor said. “Your turn, sweetheart!” 

“What are your intentions with Charlie and Vaggie? Are you, fucking... leading them to destruction too?”

His eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t say so. We have an arrangement together, that’s all! Besides, Charlie has some qualities that I can respect. And finally,” he said, playful again, “I often catch you looking at me a certain way. Is it only wariness, or something else?”

Leslie was forced to answer honestly. She _had_ to. The ninety seconds were running out. No! She could stall, rephrase, do something...

“You suspect the truth.”

_Fuck you, damn you all the way to Hell, you stupid bitch._

“Ah, you struggled to contain the last one,” he taunted her. 

She looked Alastor right in his grey, smirking face. “You were a murderer. That repulses me.”

He relaxed in his chair, unoffended. “Oh yes, dear, I've done terrible things,” he said. “Enjoyed most of them, too! But remember where you are. Remember, the same ‘benevolent’ being who cast me into this inferno also put you here. Think about how little he cares. Perhaps your worldview will change!”

Leslie stood up. “Well, you told me one thing I accept.”

“Oh?”

“Never trust anyone. Bye, Alastor.”

With that, she turned on her heel and stormed towards the only door. It opened onto the muddy bed of a swamp at night. She heard croaking frogs and chirping crickets.

“The fuck?”

“Ah, I forgot. Try closing and opening again.”

Leslie grumbled, but did as he said. This time it led to a wallpapered corridor, so she walked through and slammed the door behind her. Her face still felt flushed from the final, humiliating question, but now at least, she was armed with some kind of antidote to Alastor's charms. If she felt drawn to him again, she could remember the lifeless bodies of those innocents he killed, and lo, she would have the resolve to walk away.

She focused on the unfamiliar hallway and sagged, wondering how she'd find her way from here. _Staircase,_ she thought, and went to find one. At least she could skip breakfast. The whole conversation had spoiled her appetite.

o - o - o - o - o

From then on, Leslie decided to keep her head down and do virtuous things. Later that Thursday, she asked Charlie for some volunteer work, and Charlie asked several times if she was sure before pointing her to the laundry room. Leslie was quite happy there. There was something very zen about sorting through piles of clothes, watching and listening to the machine drums go round and round. If only her phone wasn’t stolen, she could’ve had music while she worked. 

An hour into it, Angel Dust came stomping into the room, to rifle through a pile of his jackets (all incessantly pink) which had come down the chute.

“You OK?” Leslie asked.

“Yeah, yeah, just… lookin’ for somethin’.”

Leslie remembered. “Oh.” She’d meant to hand in the suspicious bag at the front desk. She deliberated, then dug around in her shirt, fishing it out. “Is this it?”

Angel Dust looked faintly surprised. “Could be. Give it ‘ere, lemme check.”

“No, it is yours. I saw you drop it yesterday,” she said. “What is it?”

He snatched the bag. “Eh, you know, medicinal.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Thanks.” 

As he left, Leslie couldn’t help thinking that Angel would be excellent at laundry duty, what with the multitude of arms. She forgot about the baggie in due time, and kept herself in relative solitude. The sessions she attended outside of work were easy, sit-and-listen, handicrafting affairs, and nothing yet that would reveal her personality, her soul.

One problem she ran into was her own lack of clothing, since, of course, her bag was stolen. She solved this by taking an unclaimed pair of leggings from the laundry, which she wore with her hoodie on odd days, then changing to her sweatpants and undershirt on even days. Her underwear got washed whenever she had the chance. 

As for Alastor, he frequently appeared around the hotel, milling between the first and third floors, giving her the eye, and her belly did flips every time, but he didn’t provoke her into talking. 

_It’s the little things,_ she thought whenever it happened.


	4. Truth Is Not For The Sober

Tuesday night. Mr. Rapier let her off work at last, and Leslie looked forward to splashing onto her bed to sleep. Her thumbs ached from carrying heavy plates in each hand - tightly pinched, so the crockery wouldn’t slip. She slunk through the hotel lobby, and was halfway up the stairs when Angel Dust whistled loudly to get her attention.

“Hey, Bunnyface? Ya wanna grab a drink?”

“I… what?”

The spider-demon took the steps two at a time in his impossible platform shoes. Perchance he was buzzed. 

“Cherri canceled on me. C’mon, I don’t wanna drink alone.”

Leslie had no idea who Cherri was, and she’d had a long day and wanted her bed. On the other hand, it might be good to have Angel as a friend. Vaggie told her once that beneath his filthy exterior was a decent person wildly gesturing to get out. 

“Er, sure, I’ll keep you company. If you want. Where are we going?”

“Just through there. The old ‘front desk’.”

He slapped her on the shoulder as they walked downstairs and past the open door of a common room, where a handsome lady demon roasted rats in the fireplace.

“Don’t mind me callin’ ya Bunnyface, do ya?” Angel asked.

“I don’t know. Fuck, why am I a rabbit anyway?” Leslie sighed, pulling on her own ears. She missed her hair. She missed being able to (painlessly) tie up the weighted curtain around her face.

“Seems pretty random how demons turn out,” said Angel Dust. “Sometimes it’s ironic. D’ya like carrots?”

“Not really.”

“I mean, why am I a spida? Fuck knows. Nobody needs this many arms, though I ain’t complainin’. Plus I can sense storms comin’ from miles off, got a poison bite... Hey, ya might get some powers in _your_ demon form. Pretty sweet, eh?”

Leslie shrugged, unimpressed. “I’d rather be myself.”

They reached the front desk, where a number of demons took some time to unwind. Some gathered to play poker, others sat at tables, yet more conversed beside a rusty old jukebox, and the sounds of carousing and clinking glass filled the empty spaces. It reminded her of work, only more civilized. 

Angel grabbed them a couple of stools by the ‘desk’. This whole area was at odds with the hotel’s décor, seeming to have been ripped from another building: splintered half-walls, glowing green accents and a moose’s skull looming above the bar itself. Husk was still working here, a bottle of cheap booze in one oversized paw, and a filthy rag in the other. 

“Whaddaya want?” Angel asked Leslie. 

“Oh,” she said, “I’m getting water. My purse got stolen last week.”

“I remember,” Husk nodded.

“Really? Aw, that’s sad. Well, I’ll cover ya for now, you’ll be borin’ otherwise. Whaddaya really want?”

“I dunno. Gin and ginger ale?”

Husk raised an eyebrow, but capitulated. Leslie was relieved to have picked an easy drink, even more so when Angel ordered something complex, and Husk grumbled in Angrish like Joe Pesci. 

“I’ll pay you back on Friday,” she told Angel. “So how’s your week been?” 

“Oh, well, y’know, pretty preoccupied. Valentino’s plannin’ some 360° bukakke scenes in a few days. He says VR headsets are the future a’porn.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah, excitin’ times we’re livin’ in.”

“Wait, that’s where I recognize you!” Leslie said with a grin. “That’s been driving me nuts. You were playing at the bar where I work! We have a TV that plays adult movies! Oh shit, sorry,” she said, realizing how loudly she was speaking.

“Nah, don’t worry about it, they all know me ‘round ‘ere. What was happenin’ in the video ya saw?”

Leslie giggled. “Er… let me think. There was some buffalo-looking dude in a cowboy hat-”

“Oh! That was Bivol. Great guy. Yeah, it was the plot with…”

“With the model train!”

“Yes! Backside to the Future Part 3!”

The two burst out laughing. Husk gave them a strange look as he finished their drinks. When they were done wheezing, they thanked Husk and took their first sips. Angel gave her a side glance, a little daring look as he drank faster. It was a race, then. Leslie maintained eye contact as she gulped her gin, almost choking on her laughter, but Angel won. He finished his cocktail and slammed the empty glass atop his head. 

“Ha!”

“Oh, bravo,” Leslie said warmly. “I’ll beat you next time!” Then her face sagged, as she felt a presence behind her. He appeared at her elbow, and there was the unmistakable woody musk, the flash of red. 

“How’s it going, Husker?” Alastor said cheerfully. “Busy night!”

“You answered yer own question.”

“Hm. And what is Leslie drinking this evening?”

It was hard to tell whom he was talking to, Leslie or Husk. She elected not to answer, but she didn’t have to: Angel Dust acknowledged the Radio Demon with a wink. “Hers is a gin buck,” he said, “an’ I’m havin’ my ushe, in case ya wanna help us out with our empty glasses.”

Alastor waved a hand. “I was not remotely talking to you,” he said, and then turned to Leslie, feigning surprise. “So she’s a drinker, is she? Perhaps _this_ is the vice that sent her to Hell!”

She turned her head. “I think you’ll find it’s not,” she said with dignity. “In fact, Husk, I’m fine with water from now on.”

“Don’t spoil your evening on my account!” said Alastor. “Give them the same again, and a Hennessy, if you don’t mind.” 

Leslie glowered at him. As Alastor sat on her right side, she shrank away from him, leaning on Angel’s shoulder. When the drink came, she downed it in a single gulp, as if to say, “There, you bastard, I must be completely hammered to tolerate your existence”.

“Still ignoring me, I see.”

She rolled her eyes. “Listen here, Al, why should I give you the time of day? You guys, do you have any idea what he’s done?” 

Angel Dust cracked a bemused smile. “Obviously.”

“Well then…?”

Husk shrugged, twirling the cleaning rag a few times before throwing it out of sight. “What do you want, he should be punished? He’s in fuckin’ Hell.”

“Yep! Bottom floor. Don’t go no deeper’n this.”

“Well, why are you guys here?” she asked.

Angel scoffed. “How long ya got?”

“But not killing people, though!”

“I mean, yeah. It was kinda the family business, though I got out soon as I could.”

Leslie blinked; somehow she hadn’t thought Angel capable of such a crime, even by association. “What about you?” she asked, turning to Husk. 

He nodded humorlessly. “‘Nam.”

“Oh.”

“Here’s the thing, my dear,” Alastor condescended, “if you believe in the power of redemption - which I do not, but that’s by the by - you cannot confine people to their past actions, or their past selves! Charlie could have turned me away, or indeed any of us if she wanted, but she did not, because laughably, she has hope for our souls!”

“Ha!” the barkeep uttered, shaking his head at Alastor. “If you _ever_ get fucking redeemed in a thousand years, I’ll eat that rag.”

“That’s a sight I’d like to see,” Alastor quipped. He glanced at Leslie, who struggled to process all she’d heard. “Husk, why don’t you give her another. The crushing weight of truth is not borne by the sober, as they say!”

Leslie frowned, but accepted her third drink in as many minutes.

The unfamiliar song on the jukebox changed to _Opus - Live is Life._

She sat quietly tapping her finger through a few changes of topic - Angel’s newest clientele, the problem of Sir Pentious, whomever he was - and gradually, the gin began to take. Warmth spread through her belly, and up, tingeing her cheeks. Speaking her mind became easy, almost too easy. She prayed that the brevity alcohol provided was matched by plausible deniability. She was drunk; she couldn't truly _mean_ it, whatever _it_ was.

“I was not prepared for you on day one,” she enunciated, poking Alastor in the chest.

“Oh no?”

“Nooo. With your stupid Mid-Atlantic fuzzy voice and your stupid antlers. How do you take yourself seriously with those?”

“Yeah, I remember that,” Husk said, serving someone else with a dirty pint glass. Leslie had forgotten Husk witnessed her first meeting with Alastor. “Don’t worry, you’re not the first person to be dazzled by this crafty sonuvabitch.”

Knowing smirks all around. Leslie sat up. “What, what?”

“I mean, c’mon,” Angel laughed, “it’s kinda obvious.”

“What’s obv-?” She turned her gaze to Alastor, who held his liquor very well; all the same, he looked ready to have some fun at her expense. “Oh, no you don’t,” she said. “I know you too well to like you anymore.”

Angel bashed the surface of the bar, delighted. “Anymore!”

“Hm,” Alastor murmured, and he leaned in, his voice tickling her ear. “So you wouldn’t be affected by my talking to you like this?”

Leslie panicked, reflexively shrinking away, as the bassy timbre of his voice sent a thrill down her back. “Ahh, don’t fucking do that!”

Coarse male laughter from the other two. 

“Don’t do what?” Alastor asked.

“Get away from my face right now.”

“Does this bother you, _Leslie?_ ”

Leslie could have kicked herself - kicked, punched, even stabbed - for the way she reacted. Hearing him say her name, in such provocative fashion, with a lo-fi fuzz that pricked the senses, was just too much, and she lost her composure. Leslie squealed, as if she was being tickled. Burying her face in her long ears, her feet rapidly drummed the footrest on her bar-stool. It was not her first time, but it had been many, many years. God, not even Karlton did this to her. Leslie thought the days of being flustered were behind her. Apparently not!

Angel and Husk broke into helpless, spluttering laughter, barely able to believe it. As for Alastor, she couldn’t see him from behind her own ears, but he was quiet and still, and did not twist the knife with further teasing. Presently, she recovered enough to take Angel’s cocktail and down the remnants of it. 

“Oi!”

“You’re all assholes,” she said. 

“Lemme have a go,” said Husk, straightening his bow-tie, comically wiggling his eyebrows. “Hey Les, how _you_ doin’?” he purred in a gruff monotone.

She stared him down, unamused. 

“Les, Les… see anythin’ ya like?” Angel sang, flipping his hair at her.

“Give it a rest!”

And there it was again, the voice that turned her spine to custard. “Oh, sweetheart?”

“Rrrrrgh! You fucking bitch…!”

Now all three men were laughing, along with the studio audience which followed Alastor around. The longer they laughed, the further her spirits sank. Life in Hell was proving to be one humiliating slog after the next. Finally, she had enough, shoving her empty glass away and hopping from the bar-stool. The night was over, and she wanted to be alone.


	5. The Worst Of Hell

Leslie curled up in bed, letting tired, frustrated tears fall sideways along her face. Goddamn Alastor. He was the _worst,_ and yet she couldn’t get him off her mind. She’d been down this road before: fixating on a man, usually unobtainable, often powerful, but always a bad choice. Her type.

But she’d also recovered from these men. Leslie would pine over them for a while; she’d grieve for something that wasn’t hers, and never could be; and finally, she’d get over them and move on. At least, that was her usual approach. She put Karlton in that box once, writing him off, until the two connected. He actually grew into a caring, albeit troubled person. If only things could have been better for them.

Still, Leslie resolved to ride out the _current_ situation. That night, she lay clutching her pillow, representing an Alastor who didn’t exist. He was a phantom with imagined limbs, who silently murmured sweet nothings to her. It was pathetic. She knew this. She reveled in the tragedy of tumbling around with a clothy, feather-stuffed bag, while the real Alastor carried on without a care or a thought. 

Fuck him.

o - o - o - o - o

The next morning, Leslie slid down the banister into the main hall, in a vain attempt to lift her spirits. Angel Dust was awake, for some reason. How could he be a night owl and an early bird simultaneously? Perhaps he’d stayed up, carried on drinking with Husk… and Alastor. 

Angel gave her a wave. “Hey, how’s it goin’?”

“Fine,” she said, “little hungover.”

“Aw, don’t worry, a few aspirin, you’ll be fine. Feelin’ OK otherwise? Hey, I hope ya didn’t take it personal. We were just havin’ some fun.”

“Don’t remind me,” she groaned.

“I mean, it’s Alastor. That’s what makes it funny.”

“Oh, I get it, yeah. Why couldn’t I have picked someone more accessible?”

“Yeah, Al’s inaccessible a’right.”

“He could have any woman he wants,” Leslie reflected bitterly. “Probably has. Probably does.”

Angel blinked. “That’s not what I meant. Ya really don’t know? He’s fuckin’ frigid.”

“What? Frigid like-?”

“Nobody tells ya nothin’, do they? Yeah, Al don’t do sex… or anythin’ in that ballpark. Thinks it’s borin’, or maybe he just thinks other people are, y’know, a big ol’ pile of repugnance.”

Leslie sank against a pillar. “Ohh.”

“Yeah. He even turned _me_ down, which should tell ya somethin’. I know it don’t make ya feel better, but…”

“Actually, it kind of does.” She cracked her first smile of the day. “God, now I can forget all about him.”

“Wow, that easy, huh?”

Leslie chuckled and walked down the hallway with her friend. “You know, when I think about it,” she mused, “I only wanted him in the physical sense. Outside of that… he’s kind of a shit.”

“Like I ain’t _also_ a shit.”

“Ehhhh, you’re a likable shit.”

o - o - o - o - o

Later on, Leslie joined Angel Dust for a Group 1 teaching session at noon. (This group had similar work schedules, she’d learned: Leslie’s own Wednesday shift began at 5pm.) Some of the congregation brought their lunch to the session. Angel was shoving a sausage roll down his throat when Vaggie walked in, the ends of her hair ribbon fluttering behind her.

“Hi, Group 1,” Vaggie said. “Now, if you’re new, maybe you aren’t in the mood to be here yet, but bear with me for ten minutes, and you should be able to last the full thirty.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Angel Dust.

Vaggie took an empty seat with her back facing the wall. As she did this, Leslie saw her whip out her harpoon, as usual, and held it between her knees. “Right,” said Vaggie, “Today I’m going to ask you all one thing. What do you hate about Hell?”

A confused lull. “You what?”

“It’s not a trick question. You’ve all had problems, people giving you shit - just toss it out there.”

Leslie held a notebook in her hands, tapping her pen thoughtfully against it. She wanted to help get the ball rolling. What did _she_ hate about Hell? The obvious answer was that Leslie despised her demon body, but she didn’t want people to know that. “I can’t stand my boss,” she said. “He’s, you know, an underpaying shit-person.”

“Ha,” said Angel Dust, “ain’t that all bosses? You should meet mine. He’s legit scary… got more canes than you can shake a stick at.”

There was a ripple of assent.

“Anything else, gang?” Vaggie prompted. “Worst things about Hell.”

“There’s a few people I _miss?”_ Kain offered. “From the living world, like. I had this gorgeous chick, like this truly spectacular bitta stuff.”

“Like fuck you did.”

“I did! Her name was Aoife. Be fucking ages before she makes it down here, and by then she’ll be an old biddy.”

Leslie set down the notebook as her peers mentioned people they missed, including a big guy, built like a bomb shelter, who missed his twin daughters. Up to now, she hadn’t thought of the nastier hellions as estranged from their living, loving families. It was a shame, and surely being in Hell added a whole new layer of grief.

“Can we talk about the boredom?” asked Crymini, a hellhound with grungy clothing and attitude. “I am so bored, like, all the frigging time!”

“You know what, yeah!” the demon Plagueiss uttered. “I can beat the shit out of someone, but they never fucking stay down!”

Greg piped up next to Leslie. “The drugs! I’ve been taking the same goddamn shitting fucking asshole drugs for twenty years. They put them in vending machines. I take them, they wear off, I take them, they wear off. Twenty damn years, but I gotta do it.”

Vaggie and Angel Dust nodded sagely (though, Leslie suspected, for different reasons).

“Can I be honest?” said Kain, speaking up again. “I think this whole power struggle thing is bollocks. Lucifer just unquestioned, right at the top, and for what fucking reason? Like we even need a royal family. Then there’s territorial disputes that cause building damage and fuck up my commute. Everyone’s like, ‘I’ve got to have this, I’ve got to have that’. It’s bollocks. Not all of us are so insecure that we need to take up space, have people grovelling at our feet.”

“Fuckin’ popularity contest,” said Angel Dust, “jus’ like high school. But c’mon, is Heaven any diff’rent?”

Now the group concurred more strongly. 

“Alright,” Leslie reasoned, trying to be good, “ _maybe_ Heaven has a hierarchy, but the difference is people love each other. Hell is just... It’s all self-serving, isn’t it? It’s tit-for-tat.”

“Eye for an eye, yeah.”

“Because the alternative is a hippie fantasy. ‘Oh, let’s all love each other’. Riiiight, that’ll work.”

Vaggie tapped her harpoon against the floor. “Let’s talk about boredom again,” she said. “Why do you think your vices become boring after so many months and years? Why are you unfulfilled?”

Nobody had an answer for this. “Uh…”

“I’ll tell you,” Vaggie said. “Because you cannot die. You’re eternally living in a lawless trash pit, with no hope of justice. Drug use and meaningless sex and violent crime can only take you out of it for so long. You can’t permanently eliminate your enemies, so they stick around. We all have long memories down here. And,” she added, “there’s only so much you can do to each other. Inflict pain? Try to manipulate them? For centuries? What a waste of fucking time.”

Plagueiss crossed his legs, unimpressed. “OK, we’re bored and Hell sucks. So what?”

“So, if your soul goes on regardless, why would you want to stay here?”

“Because I don’t wanna get into the ‘Good Place’ on His terms!” Plagueiss argued. “If He hates free will so badly, then fuck Him.”

Leslie turned to Plagueiss. “But the tradeoff for free will is, you know, justice. Peace. All that stuff.”

But the demon shook his putrid head. “Fuck that. I’ll take my chances with the boredom. I can find new ways to beat people up.”

Leslie turned again to Vaggie, to see what the co-founder would do, how she would persuade him to settle down. Very calmly, Vaggie took her spear in one hand and stood. “I can’t force you to stay,” she said. “I can’t force any of you. What we’re doing with the hotel is giving demons the chance to better themselves. It takes strength to self-improve. Trying to change is the opposite of cowardly. We’re not saying drop your defenses; that’d be stupid. Hell, I brought a spear to this meeting in case one of you _bastardos_ got cute with me. But if you want to escape Hell, show me why you deserve not to be here.”

“I’ll show you my dick, how’s that?”

Vaggie’s good eye twitched, but she stood her ground. Leslie realized she herself was gripping the sides of her seat, in case things got violent; meanwhile the others sat in curious anticipation of a fight.

“A’right, smart guy, way to pick on someone your own size,” said Angel Dust. “Ya gonna move along, or what?”

Plagueiss weighed them up, then scoffed and abandoned the meeting. Vaggie shrugged and sat back down.

“OK,” she said, “let’s press on.”

o - o - o - o - o

Leslie walked home from work that night, enjoying the weather: dark, and just warm enough, with an occasional breeze. She decided to enjoy it some more before turning in.

Back at the hotel, she cut through the kitchen to access a shabby, but secluded garden area she’d heard about. It was quiet here, some way removed from the city center’s perpetual crashing, burning and screaming. A dark pentagram moon hung overhead, and further away was a tiny glimpse of white, cloaked in puffy clouds.

One day, she’d call it home. 

Leslie settled on a wooden bench, where the staff took their smoke breaks, then jumped as red lightning shot out beside her, frying a nearby bush. An unseen crowd applauded the shooter’s accuracy. 

“Christ on a bike!”

“Whoops!” Alastor said, coming into view with his cane. “What are you doing out here?” 

“Trying to relax, if you don’t mind! What are _you_ doing here?”

He loped towards her, and, to his credit, kept the noise down a little. “Oh, just taking a break! This spot gets a lot of rats and birds,” - he indicated a dumpster, with a single graffito on it about rainbows - “and I like to put paid to them before they become a problem!” 

“Ah, killing vermin,” Leslie tutted. “I bet you were all about hunting for sport when you were alive.”

He played her game, sitting down opposite. “Hm, perhaps _that_ explains my current form. Poetic justice! The hunter becomes the hunted.”

“What would you have rather been? A fox?” _He is a fox. No, shut up, shut up._

“Foxes are hunted too!”

“Oh yeah. I mean, they’re more predatory than some creatures.”

Alastor mused on this metaphor, speaking slow. “We know predators have their feral instincts to contend with, their thirst for blood... What about the prey? Does the prey _want_ to be chased and eaten, somewhere deep down? Is that also in their nature?”

Leslie caught herself nervously wringing one of her ears; she didn’t like where this conversation was heading. “You tell me. You’re a deer now.”

“And you are a bunny,” he countered.

Both his eyes, and the eye of the microphone on his cane, were glowing softly. She stared, transfixed by his deadlights. _Snap out of it!_ she told herself, but it was too late. He noticed. Alastor made a little amused sound and leaned on his hand, head tilted. God damn it, he knew what he was doing; Al knew the effect he had on people. 

“I’ve been learning all about you,” Leslie said, not looking at him, “and your, uh, glacial tendencies.” 

“Really now?”

“Yeah, so I wouldn’t get anywhere with you… fuck, even if we were in similar leagues. I know it’s stupid, trust me. I don’t want to like you. Logically, you are a horrible package wrapped in extremely nice paper. So it shouldn’t take much longer to internalize that, and then I’ll be... one less annoying thing for you to tolerate.”

“How earnest you are,” Alastor chuckled.

She sighed. “You’re laughing, but it’s my life.”

“At least you make it interesting, my dear.” His cane glowed briefly again, then ceased. “Let us not avoid each other. I think we could get along, and anyway, you shan’t be wanting for male attention. This place is crawling with fellows who’d be all too happy to be your first.”

“My what?”

“It’s a scary place! I don’t know what to tell you.”

Leslie lost all of her self-consciousness for a moment. “Excuse me, Al,” she said, “but you’ve gone and mistaken me for a virgin. Not the case.”

His eyebrows jumped. “Oh?”

“I was married, actually.” If only she had her ring to show him. It must have come off in the car accident. Inspiration struck. “Look,” she said, rolling up her sleeve and searching beneath the fur of her arm. “Here’s… damn it!”

“What?”

“My implant scar. It was right here.”

“I don’t follow!”

She shook her head. “Jesus… the contraceptive implant. It’s a hormone-controlling thing that lives in your arm. Get with the times.” She pulled her sleeve down again. “I mean, not that you’d need to know now, but technology marches on.”

“Well, I don’t understand it. What’s wrong with Lysol?”

Leslie balked when she realized he was serious. “Lots, Alastor! Lots is wrong with Lysol!”

She physically cringed at the thought of spraying disinfectant into a delicate spot, while Alastor laughed like a pedal bin, showing the sharp points of his back teeth, the ribs of his palate. The laugh proved contagious; once she got over the horror of what he’d said, she had to join him. 

_Oh no._ Even now, even during a fit of hysterics, Leslie was twitterpated, finding things about him to admire. When he cackled like this, Alastor’s face gained something his usual smile didn’t have. He had crinkles around his eyes: crow’s feet, scored into a face no older than thirty-five… and if it hadn’t changed since his death, then it never would.

And she would always be twenty-seven.

“Lysol… good lord,” she said. “Guess I’ve got a lot to teach you.”

When he grinned, it sounded like a balloon stretching. “Hm… maybe.”


	6. Back Into It

Charlie and Vaggie spent a quiet morning away from the stresses and strains of the hotel, out by the duck pond. The water was lava and the ducks snappy and disagreeable, but it was still nice to throw the scraps of their bagels to the demon birds.

Charlie had lived in Hell long enough to know all its secrets. Recent advancements in the dark, quasi-scientific arts allowed for the birth of ‘pet demons’ - such as pigeons, rats, pigs, dogs, or the ducks they were now feeding - all of which made the streets of Hell more lively. These creatures were accurate facsimiles of living animals, apart from a shortened lifespan, and the occasional glowing eye, set of horns or spaded tail. Unfortunately, they weren’t very intelligent, nor did they taste good.

“Where does the meat come from?” Vaggie had asked when she was newly damned to Hell.

“Well… two sources,” Charlie reluctantly admitted. “First of all, some of us have access to the living world, so we can pick it up from there.”

“Uh-huh. What’s the other source?”

“Um… you remember seeing that wagon going around after the extermination?” 

“Yeah, the one collecting corpses?” Vaggie confirmed. “Why?” The nasty truth in Charlie’s response came plummeting down like a tonne of reformed dead demon flesh, and Vaggie threw up into a wastebasket.

“I know. Some people say you can tell the difference, but it’s really hard to find reputable sources,” Charlie grimaced. “My advice is... try not to think about it.”

Newly-damned Vaggie wiped her mouth. “I’ll never trust an empanada again.”

Here and now, the pair sat undisturbed, watching the ducks squabble over their leftovers. The moment would be even nicer if Vaggie could relax and stop worrying about the hotel. Charlie looked at her girlfriend, in a long lilac coat buttoned up to the collar, beautiful as ever… just worried.

“I hope we’re on the right track,” Vaggie said. 

“I’m pretty sure we are,” Charlie said. “A couple of the guests are really taking to it! We’ll have them redeemed in no time.”

“Are you sure I can field workshops the way I am?”

“Of course! You’re very capable.” Charlie poked the tip of her nose, making Vaggie smile. “Remember the time Alastor led a workshop?”

“Urgh! Never again.”

Alastor insisted on recording that particular session, early in the hotel’s opening history, so Charlie and Vaggie could ‘learn a few things’. He still had the audio somewhere. His session ran like a Jerry Springer episode, naming and shaming demons for their misdeeds. He provoked the hotel guests and invited bad-faith criticism, which led to two separate fights breaking out, prematurely ending the session. This  _ delighted _ Alastor, and Charlie gave him a stern talking-to.

“We don’t do that,” she said. “That is unhelpful! You can’t call them pathetic and disgusting.”

“Why shouldn’t I tell the truth?” he countered, with the air of one who preferred annoying people to changing their minds. 

“Al, look, if you’re so sure my guests will fail... then you shouldn’t  _ need _ to antagonize them,” Charlie fumed. Why was she using logic in the face of pure malevolence?  _ For Pete’s sake.  _ “We’ll come to you if one of the guests, I don’t know, gets out of hand. Flex your abilities  _ then _ , if you need to.”

“So you’d merely have me bounce ruffians from the hotel, like a common thug? I should be insulted.”

Charlie managed to talk him down, using that diplomacy that became a person of her standing. As a princess of hell, one of her most crucial skills was to guide others to her way of thinking. Although Vaggie was the source of Charlie’s security, with her own way of laying down the law, Charlie knew the benefit of a little tact. It went a long way with Alastor. He agreed the sinners could fail by themselves, and that it might be more satisfying that way. 

“Come on,” Vaggie said, getting up, “let’s head back.”

On the way, they discussed their plans for the hotel itself, namely renovations. The first floor had a beautiful reception hall, ideal for hosting different events. Unfortunately it was cordoned off due to a radioactive spill, which could take a while to fix. Charlie chatted excitedly about it, but stopped when she saw Vaggie slow her pace.

“What’s up?”

Vaggie pointed. There was a small crowd of news-people, close to the hotel entrance. Chief among them was Tom Trench, his upside-down Purple Heart badge glinting in the sun, and Teavee, the knuckleheaded younger brother of Vox. 

“Oh, great,” Charlie sighed. “What in the wonky world do they want with us now?”

Clasping their hands, Vaggie marched them towards the awning at the hotel entrance in double time, giving Charlie a host of non-verbal cues to ignore the reporters, and especially not to sing. 

“Hey, Charlotte! Can we get an update on the hotel?”

“It’s Charlie,” she corrected them as Vaggie facepalmed, “and things are going just fine, thank you!”

Tom Trench shoved a microphone into their faces. “Why don’t you explain the speculation about you corralling demons to stay here? Channel 666 would love to know why you have to resort to picking up homeless nobodies.”

Charlie started to lose her temper. Raising her voice to an even-tempered, yet confident pitch, she said, “None of that is true! And you do not have permission to hound my guests.”

“Any way you can back that up, little lady?”

“Malicious rumors!” said a voice behind them, and Alastor was there with his wide toothsome grin. “We are not running a charity. The hotel is both private and for profit, and the books can be made available on request. Speaking of which,” he said, “our rates are still extremely competitive! Now is the best time to check in with this adorable creature!”

Alastor hunched down, pinching Charlie’s cheeks and making her laugh despite herself. Somewhere to her left, Vaggie made a noise like a kettle close to boiling. 

Changing tack, Tom Trench pointing the mic in Alastor’s direction, almost straight up. The other hand hovered close to his earpiece: possibly he was listening to Katie Killjoy barking instructions. 

“We received an anonymous tip, is all,” he gibbered. 

Alastor stroked the top of Charlie’s head. He did it the way a James Bond villain might stroke his cat, but still, it felt kind of nice. “Not calling me a liar, are you, Tom?” he asked. “May I call you Tom?”

“Er… yes? I mean, no, I’m not.. y-yes you can... Uh-”

Just then, the ducks from the duck pond flocked towards them, flying low and snapping at the heads of several reporters. Much confused yelling ensued.

“Excellent!” proclaimed Alastor. “I think we’re done for today!” He threw his arms wide, accidentally knocking Vaggie to the ground, and went on his merry way. Charlie laughed nervously and yanked her girlfriend away from the cameras. 

“He pushes me over on purpose,” Vaggie growled, dusting off her scraped knees.

“Who, Alastor? I don’t think so.”

“He does it when you’re not looking.”

“Well, he can be… grandiose sometimes. Doesn’t know his own arm-length, that’s what I think.”

“Come on, Char! You can’t redeem him. Having that creep around is bad for the hotel.”

Charlie sighed; they’d been over this. “Look,” she admitted, “he has his quirks, but we’d be much worse off without him. I’m not an idiot. If things get really unacceptable, we can call Mom and Dad, but not before.”

“Tell him to stop taking swipes at me.” 

“Fine.”

o - o - o - o - o

Leslie was at work that Sunday when she saw Charlie and Vaggie on the news. There were three different television sets on the walls of Hades: one for news and sports, another for porn, and a third for some channel nobody was interested in, mostly infomercials with awful, yet catchy jingles. 

She knew better than to ask Rapier to increase the volume, so she kept clearing tables, and glanced at Channel 666 whenever she could. Seeing Alastor appear on-screen almost made her drop the pile of dishes. God, even at work, he wouldn’t leave her alone!

“Hey, Jessica,” bellowed one of the customers. “Wanna top me up?”

_ Oh, like Jessica Rabbit. Very funny. _

“I will,” she told him, taking his empty bottle and glass. Her eyes went back to the TV, and saw Alastor fussing over Charlie like she was the cutest thing in the world. “Uh… Hm.”

“ _ Today,  _ Jessie.”

“Sure, sure. Any ice?”

“Does the Pope shit in the woods?”

o - o - o - o - o

Time passed in the Happy Hotel, as time was wont to do. Leslie did her best to cope with her lack of progress, as she approached the one-month mark of her stay.

It wasn’t all bad: she now had a friend in Angel Dust. Yes, he was loud, lewd, and his odd relapses were hard to stand, but Vaggie was right about his loyalty and hidden depths. He, in turn, liked her, saw the goodness in her, and probably thought her too pathetic to take advantage.

“You are one people-pleasin’ bitch,” he said once. “Swear to God, whateva dame they mixed you up with, she must be makin’ real havoc in Heaven.”

Leslie got to know other demons who’d made her acquaintance. Niffty was a lively and cheerful cyclops demon who spent most of her time cleaning; and Baxter, though rarely seen, had the distinct nervous aura of a mad scientist, and kept his gills to himself. Husk grew in her esteem as a grouchy yet unpretentious creature, and he was surprisingly intelligent. On her walks past the card table, she saw him playing poker, addressing the other players in multiple languages and more often than not, he had the winning hand.

Finally, of course, she learned more about Alastor. According to the others, he  _ was _ asexual… he just loved to invade the personal space of his peers. Pinching Charlie’s adorable cheeks on the news was one example. He enjoyed dancing with and talking to Niffty in avuncular fashion, and he would also slap Vaggie on the ass to piss her off. Leslie found this last one particularly displeasing, and hypocritical, since Vaggie and Alastor shared an aversion to being touched.

_ So it’s OK when  _ he _ does it, but not when people do it to him,  _ Leslie figured.  _ Yup, totally reasonable.  _

He even interfered with the likes of Husk, ruffling and stroking his head like any old pussycat, and Husk would sit there and try not to purr (Leslie empathized). The only person Alastor  _ avoided _ touching was Angel Dust.

“Hell yeah, I’d fuck him,” Angel confided. “For braggin’ rights, if nothin’ else.”

In one sense, Leslie was reassured by all this. Knowing what she knew about the Radio Demon, it was hard to feel jealous. Petting Charlie on TV didn’t mean anything; it was just Al being Al. However, Leslie had been on the receiving end herself, and it still made her heart seize. She couldn’t help it. On weeks like this, when personal matters removed him from the hotel, she missed him touching her, and that made her annoyed, mostly at herself for wanting it. 

If she told him that, would the touching stop, or would he do it more to annoy her? And which outcome was better? That was the question. 


	7. Channel 666 Makes A Visit

Charlie and Vaggie spent a quiet morning away from the stresses and strains of the hotel, out by the duck pond. The water was lava and the ducks snappy and disagreeable, but it was still nice to throw the scraps of their bagels to the demon birds.

Charlie had lived in Hell long enough to know all its secrets. Recent advancements in the dark, quasi-scientific arts allowed for the birth of ‘pet demons’ - such as pigeons, rats, pigs, dogs, or the ducks they were now feeding - all of which made the streets of Hell more lively. These creatures were accurate facsimiles of living animals, apart from a shortened lifespan, and the occasional glowing eye, set of horns or spaded tail. Unfortunately, they weren’t very intelligent, nor did they taste good.

“Where does the meat come from?” Vaggie had asked when she was newly damned to Hell.

“Well… two sources,” Charlie reluctantly admitted. “First of all, some of us have access to the living world, so we can pick it up from there.”

“Uh-huh. What’s the other source?”

“Um… you remember seeing that wagon going around after the extermination?” 

“Yeah, the one collecting corpses?” Vaggie confirmed. “Why?” The nasty truth in Charlie’s response came plummeting down like a tonne of reformed dead demon flesh, and Vaggie threw up into a wastebasket.

“I know. Some people say you can tell the difference, but it’s really hard to find reputable sources,” Charlie grimaced. “My advice is... try not to think about it.”

Newly-damned Vaggie wiped her mouth. “I’ll never trust an empanada again.”

Here and now, the pair sat undisturbed, watching the ducks squabble over their leftovers. The moment would be even nicer if Vaggie could relax and stop worrying about the hotel. Charlie looked at her girlfriend, in a long lilac coat buttoned up to the collar, beautiful as ever… just worried.

“I hope we’re on the right track,” Vaggie said. 

“I’m pretty sure we are,” Charlie said. “A couple of the guests are really taking to it! We’ll have them redeemed in no time.”

“Are you sure I can field workshops the way I am?”

“Of course! You’re very capable.” Charlie poked the tip of her nose, making Vaggie smile. “Remember the time Alastor led a workshop?”

“Urgh! Never again.”

Alastor insisted on recording that particular session, early in the hotel’s opening history, so Charlie and Vaggie could ‘learn a few things’. He still had the audio somewhere. His session ran like a Jerry Springer episode, naming and shaming demons for their misdeeds. He provoked the hotel guests and invited bad-faith criticism, which led to two separate fights breaking out, prematurely ending the session. This _delighted_ Alastor, and Charlie gave him a stern talking-to.

“We don’t do that,” she said. “That is unhelpful! You can’t call them pathetic and disgusting.”

“Why shouldn’t I tell the truth?” he countered, with the air of one who preferred annoying people to changing their minds. 

“Al, look, if you’re so sure my guests will fail... then you shouldn’t _need_ to antagonize them,” Charlie fumed. Why was she using logic in the face of pure malevolence? _For Pete’s sake._ “We’ll come to you if one of the guests, I don’t know, gets out of hand. Flex your abilities _then_ , if you need to.”

“So you’d merely have me bounce ruffians from the hotel, like a common thug? I should be insulted.”

Charlie managed to talk him down, using that diplomacy that became a person of her standing. As a princess of hell, one of her most crucial skills was to guide others to her way of thinking. Although Vaggie was the source of Charlie’s security, with her own way of laying down the law, Charlie knew the benefit of a little tact. It went a long way with Alastor. He agreed the sinners could fail by themselves, and that it might be more satisfying that way. 

“Come on,” Vaggie said, getting up, “let’s head back.”

On the way, they discussed their plans for the hotel itself, namely renovations. The first floor had a beautiful reception hall, ideal for hosting different events. Unfortunately it was cordoned off due to a radioactive spill, which could take a while to fix. Charlie chatted excitedly about it, but stopped when she saw Vaggie slow her pace.

“What’s up?”

Vaggie pointed. There was a small crowd of news-people, close to the hotel entrance. Chief among them was Tom Trench, his upside-down Purple Heart badge glinting in the sun, and Teavee, the knuckleheaded younger brother of Vox. 

“Oh, great,” Charlie sighed. “What in the wonky world do they want with us now?”

Clasping their hands, Vaggie marched them towards the awning at the hotel entrance in double time, giving Charlie a host of non-verbal cues to ignore the reporters, and especially not to sing. 

“Hey, Charlotte! Can we get an update on the hotel?”

“It’s Charlie,” she corrected them as Vaggie facepalmed, “and things are going just fine, thank you!”

Tom Trench shoved a microphone into their faces. “Why don’t you explain the speculation about you corralling demons to stay here? Channel 666 would love to know why you have to resort to picking up homeless nobodies.”

Charlie started to lose her temper. Raising her voice to an even-tempered, yet confident pitch, she said, “None of that is true! And you do not have permission to hound my guests.”

“Any way you can back that up, little lady?”

“Malicious rumors!” said a voice behind them, and Alastor was there with his wide toothsome grin. “We are not running a charity. The hotel is both private and for profit, and the books can be made available on request. Speaking of which,” he said, “our rates are still extremely competitive! Now is the best time to check in with this adorable creature!”

Alastor hunched down, pinching Charlie’s cheeks and making her laugh despite herself. Somewhere to her left, Vaggie made a noise like a kettle close to boiling. 

Changing tack, Tom Trench pointing the mic in Alastor’s direction, almost straight up. The other hand hovered close to his earpiece: possibly he was listening to Katie Killjoy barking instructions. 

“We received an anonymous tip, is all,” he gibbered. 

Alastor stroked the top of Charlie’s head. He did it the way a James Bond villain might stroke his cat, but still, it felt kind of nice. “Not calling me a liar, are you, Tom?” he asked. “May I call you Tom?”

“Er… yes? I mean, no, I’m not.. y-yes you can... Uh-”

Just then, the ducks from the duck pond flocked towards them, flying low and snapping at the heads of several reporters. Much confused yelling ensued.

“Excellent!” proclaimed Alastor. “I think we’re done for today!” He threw his arms wide, accidentally knocking Vaggie to the ground, and went on his merry way. Charlie laughed nervously and yanked her girlfriend away from the cameras. 

“He pushes me over on purpose,” Vaggie growled, dusting off her scraped knees.

“Who, Alastor? I don’t think so.”

“He does it when you’re not looking.”

“Well, he can be… grandiose sometimes. Doesn’t know his own arm-length, that’s what I think.”

“Come on, Char! You can’t redeem him. Having that creep around is bad for the hotel.”

Charlie sighed; they’d been over this. “Look,” she admitted, “he has his quirks, but we’d be much worse off without him. I’m not an idiot. If things get really unacceptable, we can call Mom and Dad, but not before.”

“Tell him to stop taking swipes at me.” 

“Fine.”

o - o - o - o - o

Leslie was at work that Sunday when she saw Charlie and Vaggie on the news. There were three different television sets on the walls of Hades: one for news and sports, another for porn, and a third for some channel nobody was interested in, mostly infomercials with awful, yet catchy jingles. 

She knew better than to ask Rapier to increase the volume, so she kept clearing tables, and glanced at Channel 666 whenever she could. Seeing Alastor appear on-screen almost made her drop the pile of dishes. God, even at work, he wouldn’t leave her alone!

“Hey, Jessica,” bellowed one of the customers. “Wanna top me up?”

_Oh, like Jessica Rabbit. Very funny._

“I will,” she told him, taking his empty bottle and glass. Her eyes went back to the TV, and saw Alastor fussing over Charlie like she was the cutest thing in the world. “Uh… Hm.”

“ _Today,_ Jessie.”

“Sure, sure. Any ice?”

“Does the Pope shit in the woods?”

o - o - o - o - o

Time passed in the Happy Hotel, as time was wont to do. Leslie did her best to cope with her lack of progress, as she approached the one-month mark of her stay.

It wasn’t all bad: she now had a friend in Angel Dust. Yes, he was loud, lewd, and his odd relapses were hard to stand, but Vaggie was right about his loyalty and hidden depths. He, in turn, liked her, saw the goodness in her, and probably thought her too pathetic to take advantage.

“You are one people-pleasin’ bitch,” he said once. “Swear to God, whateva dame they mixed you up with, she must be makin’ real havoc in Heaven.”

Leslie got to know other demons who’d made her acquaintance. Niffty was a lively and cheerful cyclops demon who spent most of her time cleaning; and Baxter, though rarely seen, had the distinct nervous aura of a mad scientist, and kept his gills to himself. Husk grew in her esteem as a grouchy yet unpretentious creature, and he was surprisingly intelligent. On her walks past the card table, she saw him playing poker, addressing the other players in multiple languages and more often than not, he had the winning hand.

Finally, of course, she learned more about Alastor. According to the others, he _was_ asexual… he just loved to invade the personal space of his peers. Pinching Charlie’s adorable cheeks on the news was one example. He enjoyed dancing with and talking to Niffty in avuncular fashion, and he would also slap Vaggie on the ass to piss her off. Leslie found this last one particularly displeasing, and hypocritical, since Vaggie and Alastor shared an aversion to being touched.

 _So it’s OK when_ he _does it, but not when people do it to him,_ Leslie figured. _Yup, totally reasonable._

He even interfered with the likes of Husk, ruffling and stroking his head like any old pussycat. Husk would usually sit there scowling and trying not to purr (Leslie empathized). The only one Alastor _avoided_ touching was Angel Dust.

“Hell yeah, I’d fuck him,” Angel confided. “For braggin’ rights, if nothin’ else.”

In one sense, Leslie was reassured by all this. Knowing what she knew about the Radio Demon, it was hard to feel jealous. Petting Charlie on TV didn’t mean anything; it was just Al being Al. However, Leslie had been on the receiving end herself, and it still made her heart seize. She couldn’t help it. On weeks like this, when personal matters removed him from the hotel, she missed him touching her, and that made her annoyed, mostly at herself for wanting it. 

If she told him that, would the touching stop, or would he do it more to annoy her? And which outcome was better? That was the question. 


	8. Might Swing By

A miserable day dawned over the city, and acid rain kept the majority populace indoors. Even Sir Pentious and Cherri Bomb called half-time on their ongoing feud. 

Leslie meandered around the first floor, wearing her shirt, leggings and sneakers today. Hearing voices from the room where Group 1 had meetings, she hunkered in the doorway to eavesdrop. It was Charlie and Vaggie.

“Here’s what you do,” Vaggie instructed, taking out a screwed-up tissue, “assuming they’re not live. The cameras are rolling, and by mistake, you mention something you shouldn’t. Drop your hankie and bend riiiight down to pick it up. Interrupt yourself, but make it look like an accident! If the footage is awkward, they can’t use it for their spiel.”

Charlie looked defeated. “Vaggie, you saw the brawl with me and Katie. Vox and his network have no standards. They’d use any footage if it made me look like an idiot.” 

“Then we’ll make time to prepare more answers,” Vaggie said, and the two hugged. “Don’t worry, Princess. That thing with the ducks should keep them away for now.”

As Leslie crouched there, wondering what the duck incident was, she saw them share a kiss. _ Oh, _ she thought,  _ Oh! Right then,  _ and quietly slipped away to give them privacy. How embarrassing that she hadn’t known sooner… but they made a lovely couple.

She retreated to the abandoned room. Leslie wouldn’t refer to it as a studio, not until someone took her up on the dance lessons, and there was no mirror on the wall anyway. While she waited for the inevitable crowd of Absolutely Nobody, she flicked through her phone, catching up on the day’s events with 666 News. That Katie Killjoy sure was a cutthroat bitch. 

Nobody coming, ho-hum. 

Then - by the power of legilimency or whatever mind-reading voodoo bullshit Alastor used - he appeared in the corner and slammed his cane against the floor, startling her.

“Oh my God, you’re a fucking wraith!” she cried. 

“Fine, thanks for asking!”

Leslie sighed. She wasn’t angry to see him, not really. However, she  _ was _ annoyed that her pulse still jumped at the sight of him. “You’ve got to stop finding me on my own like this,” she reprimanded. “But, since you’re here, I’d better thank you for getting my phone back. I appreciate it… means I don’t have to use the radio any more.”

“You’re welcome. You said something about swing?”

Ah. The real crux of the matter.

“Well, it’s new-swing music,” she clarified. “More electronic than you’re used to.”

“Aren’t you going to show me? I couldn’t operate your cellular device, so… you’ll have to do it.”

Leslie took out her phone. “Finally, something Alastor can’t do.”

“Alright, young lady.”

She actually smiled. He waited as she typed her passcode, shielding the number from him. The phone had TouchID, but of course it didn’t work, because her demon form had no fingerprints. Leslie navigated to her iTunes playlist, knowing which songs were best for the occasion. 

“Can Alastor dance?” she teased. 

“Not to a professional standard, but yes. Was Leslie going to show me some moves?”

“Pffft. No.”

“Ah, but I’m curious now.”

“You’re not even dressed right for exercising.” He was wearing the same old red shirt and dress pants beneath a long-tailed coat. “If this were a real class, I’d kick you out for improper attire.”

Alastor’s Cheshire-cat grin came all the way up to his eyes. “You can overlook it this time,” he said, “since you owe me a favor.”

“Fine, I can show you something. I have a routine which works better with electro-funk, but we can adapt it. It’s going to be kind of a shuffle…” She looked up, and he was studying her, waiting to watch and judge her next move. Leslie steeled herself to be professional and stepped back, performing a few stretches. “Feel free to copy what I’m doing. Loosen up a bit.”

“No thank you.”

_ Be professional,  _ said Leslie’s inner bestie.  _ You danced in front of people all the time. The worst he can do is be a shit, like usual. _

“Alright,” she said. “I’ll go through it once, and you just watch and get the general idea.” She picked up her phone and selected the song Catgroove. It had that 1930s hot-jazz energy with more of a modern rhythm. As it played, she watched Alastor touch his chin, liking it, tapping his foot. Leslie smiled - how novel to break past his usual barrier of snobbery! _ I win,  _ she thought with glee. 

Now, to dancing. She performed a basic running man for eight counts, her arms loose, then T-stepped, tapping the toe of her outside foot, four counts one way and four counts back again. Her sneakers squeaked against the floor.

“Really easy, really simple,” she said. “So… slow version first.” She stood beside him, facing the wall. Alastor continued tapping his foot. “We’re going to lift the right leg like this, and then as we bring it down, the other leg comes back.” She landed with a thud. “Then you hop, bring the right leg to center and lift the left leg, so…” Thud. “Like that. The same way. Lift, down and back, lift, down and back.”

As she gestured for him to follow along, Alastor tutted and did so. She’d forgotten how wiry his legs were. He went through the motions with relative ease, keeping his balance, and naturally, his smile.

“Good,” she said. “The drop’s coming in a second; see if you can speed it up.”

She counted down - 4, 3, 2, 1 - and jumped back into the running man, then slowed to nothing as Alastor ‘ran’ backwards and turned out his legs. He proceeded to spin away on his heels, before jumping into a series of Charleston-esque moves. 

Leslie clapped derisively. “Oh, well done, I see how it is,” she said. What an asshole, upstaging his teacher. Leslie had to admit, he wasn’t bad. On paper, too vaudevillian to be sexy, but it was still Alastor, and his dance was snappy and clean. Watching him, Leslie got that familiar Oh No feeling, which she tried to suppress. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.

He came to a stop and fluffed his lapels in satisfaction.  _ Oh no you don’t,  _ Leslie thought, ready to retaliate, but he wasn’t done. Coming towards her with something close to the T-step, he invaded her space, moving into closed position. 

Leslie was sober enough to push him away. If he was going to show off, she would respond in turn. 

She began with the more intermediate examples of shuffle, rocking furiously with a sarcastic beaming grin, then cross-legged spinning. After that, she broke into a jumpstyle jig, thrusting her arms left and right. Then more shuffling, followed by an athletic interpretation of the Charleston step, with strong floor contact. 

Leslie finished, giving a little curtsy, and Alastor’s eyes flashed, as if to say, _My turn, little lady._ Leslie wasn’t worried. She had muscle memory on her side, and knew the song better than he did.

Not long after, Alastor sailed into a more complicated jitterbug. Leslie enjoyed the view. It was the midpoint of the song: a little trumpet interlude, which Leslie knew was deceptive. The expected lively key change never came; instead, the song dwindled to flat electronica and died. Alastor faltered slightly.

“Is it over?” he asked.

“No,” Leslie said. “It’ll come back.”

And so it did. Alastor nodded smugly when he caught it, as though he’d known it all along. He kicked, stomped his foot and changed, gliding back into the dance. Leslie laughed and danced along too; she leaned on some past routine, the better to watch Alastor throwing shapes. His hair crashed around his face whenever he spun, which was often. It was great to see him move with such energy. 

Deciding to show off again, she took several steps back, then cantered forward, into an illusion turn. Leslie’s ears swung, hitting her in the face as she landed.

“Ha!” she said, tossing her head. 

Alastor’s smile broadened. As his legs traveled, he unfastened a few coat buttons (Leslie felt fresh saliva wash into her mouth) but kept the garment on. Then he stood still, shrugging into a backbend. Alastor folded over, down, down… past the point of comfort. A second later, his hands planted on the floor, mere inches from his ankles. 

She covered her mouth. “Jesus Christ!”

Finally he lifted one leg and pointed his shoe at the ceiling, looking for all the world like the Eiffel Tower. Leslie didn’t know whether to laugh or cringe. Maybe both.

“Alright, alright, you win at flexibility! Stop it now, please.”

Dutifully, Alastor kicked both legs up, evolving the position to a simple handstand, and quickly righted himself. He let the song play out as he re-buttoned his coat. 

“How’d you learn to do that?” she asked.

“I didn’t,” he said.

“Come on, nobody’s that naturally flexible… I don’t think.” She tried it herself, getting to about 90 degrees with plenty of legroom to keep her stable, and straightened in defeat. “Well, that was  _ that _ song, anyway. I have another one, but you won’t like it as much.”

“I like anything you can dance to.”

Leslie shrugged, fiddling with the phone. “Well, a determined person could dance to any song. OK, this one is called Fleur de Lille.”

“Lily Flower.”

“You speak French.” She’d forgotten he came from Louisiana. 

He slipped into a Cajun accent, saying breezily, “Ahh, j’n’parle qu’un tout p’tit peu asteur.”

_ Oh no, no, no, no. _

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Leslie said, before covering her mouth. She hadn’t meant to say that, and now he was laughing at her yet again. 

“Let it play,” he said, “and I’ll show you how we did it back in my day.”

o - o - o - o - o

At first, Leslie was annoyed that he’d hijacked her lesson and turned it around to teach  _ her _ how it was done, but he danced with such joy, it was hard to stay mad. He improvised something based on the song, walking her through it, or rather  _ throwing _ her through it, and Leslie did her best to keep up. There was spinning involved - lots of spinning - and an ambitious flip in which she was springboarded over his shoulder, and usually crumpled on the floor. They kept it going, played the song four whole times, until she had it down.

“That’s enough rug-cutting for now,” she said, picking herself up. “Christ alive… I need a protein bar or something.”

“Fun was had today,” Alastor declared, taking out his cane. Oddly, he didn’t seem out of breath.  _ What, does he do this all the time?  _ His inner radio played Fleur de Lille, albeit with a more granular quality, and Leslie glared, utterly sick of hearing it.

“Go on, hoppit! I’ve got to do my warm-down.”

He shrugged, with a somewhat rakish tilt of the head. “Farewell, little bunny,” he said, then tapped his cane onto the floor and vanished. Staring at the spot where he’d been, Leslie wished, not for the first time, that she wasn’t so helpless to his games.


	9. The Hotel Fucking Explodes

Pentagram City was a bustling metropolis by day; but by night, right around the witching hour, one could feel a certain stillness as nocturnal activities wound down. The hotel itself had a curfew, to prevent certain shenanigans. Ergo, most guests were actually asleep when, on the 14th of March, the calm was shattered by a colossal boom, the sound of breaking glass, and a sudden shake of the entire building.

Leslie fell out of bed with a scream, shielding her face from the rushing surface of the road; then she understood this was not the fatal car crash all over again. This was something else. 

From the corridor, she heard confused yells. Cold, rusty water sprinkled from above, making her cry out in annoyance. She grabbed her phone. No way was Leslie going to lose an irreplaceable possession to a sudden downpour. Then the alarm sounded, moving from the first floor to this one, then further up the premises.

“Everyone outside, please! This is not a drill! This way!”

Leslie pocketed the phone and charger and rushed into the hallway with her shoulders hunched. The plethora of disgruntled, pajamaed demons were called down the staircase. She recognized some of them: the ones who used to bang on the bathroom door when she showered. 

“The hell is going on?” Leslie asked the world in general.

No answer.

She reached the first floor and fought her way along like a salmon going upstream, finally making it outside. The exterior view of the hotel showed a mess of bricks and plaster from one of the third-floor rooms. This, then, was the site of the explosion. Leslie hoped no-one was hurt. 

Shit. Oh shit. Where was everybody?

First she saw Niffty, in a nightgown, flitting to and fro at the speed of sound to sweep up rubble. Then Charlie and Vaggie were there, in matching fleece onesies, as they loudly directed the crowd to make way for other guests. There were so many people, more than she’d even known were staying here.

“Angel?” she called out. “Husk?” _Alastor?_

“Who speaks my name in vain?” Angel Dust called back. She twirled round and saw him in a peachy-pink silk robe and leather boots. “Hey, Les,” he said, “you OK?”

“Yes, I’m fine. You OK?”

“Yeah, just fuckin’ soaked,” Angel said. He wasn’t lying - the hair that covered his skin was a lot softer than hers, more of a gossamer, and the water had drenched it. His usually stunning coif drooped over his face. “Any idea what happened?”

“No. Maybe it was Sir Pentious! Maybe… he came back to destroy the hotel again.”

“Pentious knows better,” said Alastor from right beside her (making Leslie jump). She was sorry to see that he was dressed the same as always, not in pajamas, and only slightly dampened. 

“Someone else, then?” Angel said, raising his voice over several chattering demons. 

“I imagine we shall know in a second.”

Alastor was right; moments later, there was a loud whistle and whooshing sounds. They looked up to see Husk, his fur standing on end and his tail wagging; he flew down, holding Baxter by his frilly wet ears. Leslie was stunned. She hadn’t known Husk could fly. As he landed and spread his wings, she could see the little interior markings that branded each feather. 

“Here’s yer fuckin’ problem,” Husk yelled, throwing Baxter to the ground, and kicking him for good measure. 

“Hey, hey, stop it! No violence to the guests!” Charlie said, storming forward. “What on earth is going on?”

“Ask him,” said Husk, “ask this science-loving sack of shit why he gave me a fuckin’ heart attack. I don’t need this!”

As a group, Leslie, Alastor and Angel Dust crept forward to get a better view of this dramatic scene. Charlie was joined by Vaggie, her harpoon already drawn, and the couple demanded to know what had happened.

Baxter’s voice, which was weak to begin with, cracked and broke even more as he explained himself, still cowering on the ground. “I was working on my project,” he said. “There was a slight m-miscalculation- The project failed-!”

“You were conducting unholy science in our hotel?!”

“No! W-well, yes, but not unholy!” Baxter said as he stood. “Quite the opposite - the gift of life!”

At her right-hand side, Angel Dust gave Alastor a nudge. “Hey, Al, fancy teleportin’ in, gettin’ us a good look at that wreck?”

Alastor shrugged. “We might as well. Coming, Leslie?”

“Huh?”

She felt a hand on her shoulder, endured the half-second collapse of the entire world, and landed in the wet, blackened corridor of the third floor. Water continued to spray from the sprinkler system, until Alastor waved his hand, stopping it. “What a fuckin’ rush!” Angel exclaimed, staggering. 

“Why’d you teleport us?” Leslie asked, as she too got her bearings. “Baxter was about to explain it.”

Alastor led the way, trailing his long fingers against the ruined wallpaper. “Oh,” he said, “ but seeing for ourselves is far more entertaining! I do love an adventure.”

The three splashed along the corridor without further comment. A fact about Leslie, which she tended not to share, was that she’d loved science as a child. On a superficial level, the myriad chemical reactions and biological processes she learned from Bill Nye fascinated her. She was going to be a scientist - one day. Her mother was so proud and supportive… and then high school happened. It turned out that fascination was not the same thing as academic competence, and so Leslie came into her real strength, dancing. Here and now, she wasn’t sorry that Angel and Alastor dragged her along for the investigation. Maybe they’d find something to write home about.

At the hallway’s end, a door lay on the floor, having been blasted off the adjacent room. Leslie smelled something gross, like expired mayonnaise. The trio cautiously entered. It was a clinical lab setting, or it had been, before the explosion. The ceiling was black, the walls equally charred (and sticky with something), and the floor was burnt paper, shattered tubes and vials. 

“Uh-oh,” Leslie said, “I can’t walk on that.”

Angel heard her, glanced at her bare feet and frowned. “Don’tcha got paw pads?” he asked. 

“No.”

“Uh. I can... carry ya?”

“No, just… hang on.”

She reached for a couple of strewn textbooks, and dropped them again to use as stepping-stones. Now she could peer around the doorway, where more lab equipment - presumably smuggled - was stored. Tall, translucent containment vats, large enough to curl inside, were stacked together. She saw long, low incubators with heated lamps; straw nests; unsettling gooey lumps splattered onto every surface. 

Alastor strolled to the hole in the exterior wall, checking the outside crowd, and then he and Leslie turned their attention to something horrible under a nearby desk. 

“What the fuck is that?” Leslie said, hopping over. 

The thing appeared to be an ovular, slightly squashed creature with brittle leathery skin. Its eyes were closed, and its mouth lay open, as though mid-snore, showing two pointed fangs. 

“Hm,” Alastor said, taking out his cane. “Is it dead, do you think?”

“I hope so.”

Angel waved to them. “There’s another one here! Got blown up. He ain’t wakin’ any time soon.”

Leslie had a nasty thought. Clearly Baxter made these strange beings from scratch - the so-called ‘gift of life’ - but could such beings die if they were created in Hell? After all, _sinners_ only died by an angel’s hand. The rule for these things was… unclear. 

She threw one of her stepping-stones closer to Alastor, just in case. If the monsters were resurrected, he could teleport her to safety. Alastor poked the lifeless body with the tip of his cane. The stench of mayonnaise grew stronger. 

“Awww, Jesus Christ!” Leslie said, covering her nose. 

“Wasn’t me, I swear,” Angel said. “Aaaaand, yep. I’m no engineer, but I think this tankard here’s your problem.”

They beheld a twisted copper husk, lined with putrid gunge. Fascinated, Alastor walked over, glass crunching underfoot, and he shone his cane into the carnage. “I think you’re right,” he told Angel. “You know, these wretches look familiar, don’t you agree? A little like-”

“The Egg Bois,” Angel finished, “only less crispy.”

Leslie picked up one of her books. “First of all,” she said, “I’m no longer having fun; second, what’s an Egg Boi?”

“Sir Pent’s minions,” Angel Dust said, still staring at the blasted corpse of the nearest one. “Lots of ‘em, but you can bash their brains in pretty easy. I wondered where he was gettin’ ‘em. Can’t have laid them himself. Anatomically, uh…”

“Defunct,” Alastor finished.

“Yeah. Ah man, this is gross.”

A ragged ghostly wail pierced the air as the other Egg Boi rolled from beneath the desk. Leslie and Angel screamed, and she threw her book at it. Alastor took it a step further, pointing his cane and hitting the egg with red lightning. While it lay there and convulsed with pain, he whipped the cane straight up, and the ceiling crumbled. Two chunks of plaster crashed down on the helpless creations. Leslie yelped as Angel scooped her into his arms and ran backwards from the room. 

“Fuck’s sake, Al! Ya wanna destroy the place more’n it already is?”

Alastor remained calm, stepping atop the mound of debris to flatten the leathery Egg Boi completely. “Of which crime,” he asked, “is an egg most afraid?”

“Uh…” Leslie said. “I don’t… what?”

“Poaching!” He laughed at his own awful wisecrack.

Angel Dust tutted. “That’s just bad.”

“Sorry, dear boy. I do prefer my jokes _punny_ -side-up.”

“Ahh, fuck me! That was even worse. I take back every nice thing I ever said about ya.”

“Yeah, what are you, a comedi-hen…?” Leslie retorted weakly. This earned her a disgusted look from Angel Dust, who dropped her onto the hallway carpet. Alastor, however, gave her a smirk, twirling his cane. Once he’d made quite sure the Egg Bois were dead, he rejoined them in the corridor. 

“I’ll repair this in the morning,” Alastor decided. “Just as well we found what remained of the experiments! They should not be allowed to live!”

“Yeah… well, thanks for the adventure, Allyboy,” said Angel, aiming a clap at his shoulder. The clapping arm froze in midair.

“Don’t touch me,” Alastor warned brightly, then released Angel from suspended animation.

Leslie spoke up. “So, are you kicking Baxter out? He’s enabling Sir Pentious, after all.”

“I want to see how Charlie will handle it,” Alastor said. “No doubt the news anchors will get hold of the story, which will be bad publicity - and Miss Magne has yet to make good on her promise to punish misbehaving clientele.”

“She'll probably just hike up the rent,” said Angel Dust, flexing the arm Alastor had frozen.

Leslie had an idea. “Do you think Baxter has any, like, hazmat suits? Because I heard there’s something up with the reception hall downstairs, or ballroom, whatever it is with the giant lock on the door.”

Alastor snapped his fingers. “Toxic waste removal! That _is_ a unique punishment. I like the way you think!”

“I meant more of a voluntary group effort...”

“Nah, fuck him!” Angel said. “Bax can do it; he deserves it for givin’ us PTSD at three in the mornin’. I need my beauty rest! Plus, that could’ve been your office he destroyed, Al. If he’d been on the otha side of this corridor…”

That was right; Alastor’s office was on the fourth floor, above this one. As Leslie recalled, her high school science classrooms were always on the topmost story. Now she knew why: so as not to take out any above students in case of an explosion.

Alastor grasped their shoulders, teleporting them outside. The demonic din was still going strong, and Charlie could be seen pacing around, talking on the phone to her parents. 

“I’m gonna go find Husk,” announced Angel. “He could prob'ly use a hug, ifyaknowwhatImean.”

After Angel slunk away, Leslie and Alastor regarded one another in a queer, almost tangible silence, until he asked: “Do you sleep in your clothes?”

“Do _you?_ ”

He laughed. “Technically, yes.”

“Ha!”

“But rarely, and standing up,” he countered, “so they don’t wrinkle.”

“You’re weird.”

“Comedi-hen,” he said to himself, strolling away at last, “I must remember that one.”


	10. Healthy Competition

“Look!” Niffty yelled to Leslie across the hall. 

Leslie switched off her power washer and went to remove her hood, then remembered it had to stay on. From beside a sludge-streaked wall, Niffty had blasted a single word using her own washer. 

“I wrote my name!”

“That’s great, Niff,” said Leslie, getting back to work. Blasting water was kind of fun, but aiming this contraption for long periods made her muscles ache. Across the room, Baxter chipped some disgusting thing from the floor and surreptitiously added it to a sample jar. 

This was their second day, if you counted the precursory inspection. Leslie had taken time off work (feigning illness) to help with the decontamination process: partly to be a good girl, and partly because Baxter’s hazmat suits were too small for most other demons. Of course, she made sure there was the absolute minimum of danger before volunteering - what if the suits were torn?

In terms of radiation poisoning, Baxter said, the symptoms would be acute, but brief. The average demon could recuperate within a day or so; this he knew based on his study of a demon who could vomit toxic waste. Anyone who got in their way was a little worse for wear, but all made a full recovery. No lasting mutations, no permanent loss of hair or bleeding gums… Leslie’s jaw clenched a little at the mention of these symptoms.

“We’ll take precautions, of course, but this is Hell,” Baxter said, “you can’t die, remember!”

“You’re so smart!” Niffty had responded, poking the esca that dangled anglerfish-style over his face.

Leslie liked the work OK, the same way she enjoyed meditating over laundry, and it was nice to dip back into science again. The major downside was wearing protective clothing; the instant she climbed into it, she knew she was going to hate it. In combination with her fur, Leslie’s suit-prison caused her to sweat profusely, like a bag of frozen veggies in the microwave.

The yellowish nuclear slurry was everywhere: the parquet floor, the stage at one end of the hall, and the hotel’s second bar and bar-stools at the other end. But the worst of it was the specks on the ceiling that graduated into stalactites. It reminded Leslie of the mold that used to grow in an ex-boyfriend’s bathroom. She avoided looking up. 

For three days - as much time as she could reasonably take - Leslie cleaned up waste, ground down affected surfaces and trashed any ruined décor, before slouching to the fire exit every evening to hose off. It was exhausting work, but between them all, they had done it within a week. The hall was clean and tidy, with only background levels of radiation - safe enough for other demons to redecorate.

“Great!” Baxter declared, as Charlie ceremoniously removed the lock and chain from the doors, “Punishment over! Next time, get your dad or your audiophile colleague to do this stuff.”

Leslie didn’t see the room get finished off, but she happened to glimpse Charlie’s father dropping by to check on the renovation. Lucifer was quite something to behold, dressed all in angel-white with a hat and cane. He pranced, he hummed to himself, and he twirled his cane and acted for all the world like he should be running a chocolate factory somewhere. Leslie thought she’d be used to it by now, since he shared this queer brazen kind of confidence with Alastor, but apparently not.

_ Alastor. _ He’d love a chance to schmooze the King of Hell. Leslie doubled back to the common room, where she’d seen Alastor reading one of his pirating adventure novels.

“Hey, Al,” she said, skidding around the corner. “Lucifer is here.”

He looked up. “Oh.” Pausing only briefly, Alastor snapped his book shut and vanished, and she was left standing there like a dumbass. This reaction was… unexpected. She could only presume he made himself scarce out of sheer intimidation. Just like Vaggie said: he knew not to reckon with a higher power.

o - o - o - o - o

The next time Leslie saw the reception hall, it was for a morning announcement. Beautiful cobalt-blue wallpaper for a change, drapes, and a floor so shiny it looked freshly greased. One would never know it had been spattered with radioactive waste. Today, thirteen-or-so hotel guests sat in a clumsy horseshoe near the stage, where the original co-founders stood with some unfamiliar imp. 

“We have something to tell you!” Charlie beamed. 

Leslie yawned. She’d been up late last night with a certain pillowy friend of hers, and relied on a stiff cup of coffee, black, to keep her in the land of the living. Technically the land of the dead. Alastor was away this morning, but Angel Dust lounged across two seats with a hangover, and Kain sat picking brittle bits of leather from his jacket cuff. The newest person in the room, a business-professional imp with long black-and-white striped horns, introduced himself.

“Hey, bastards and bitches,” he said, aiming finger guns at each guest in turn. “My name’s Blitzo! - the ‘o’ is silent - and I’m the founder of Immediate Murder Professionals! If you need anyone in the living world to feel the sweet blasting heat of revenge, we’ve got your back!”

“Revenge is s’pposed to be cold,” Kain heckled. 

Blitzo continued with barely a flutter. “So I.M.P. is sponsoring an event at the hotel, which was Charlie’s idea, to celebrate this newly-opened hall. It’s a talent show, basically. We’ll adjudicate the contestants and offer a suitable prize to the winner. All this in exchange for a series of unobtrusive advertisements for our business!”

Leslie finished her coffee, curious, but already shutting it down in her mind. There’d be no time for her to enter a contest, not with all the waitressing she wanted to do.

“What is this fucking prize?” said another nameless demon.

Charlie hopped excitedly. “Mr. Blitzo will use his access to the living world to bring back a personal item of yours!”

Leslie’s ears pricked up, and she hoped nobody noticed.

“Yeah! Or steal stuff from your enemies,” Blitzo added with an evil laugh. That took the guests out of their early-morning stupor; there was a chorus of creaks as they leaned forwards in their chairs.

“No, no,” Vaggie countered. “It’s not about petty vengeance. We’re doing this because everyone has stuff back home that’s dear to them. A little healthy competition, where people show off what they can do, is a nice idea that Charlie had.”

“Exactly!” Charlie said. “It’ll be May 12th - about two weeks away, so plenty of time to practice.”

“Wait, wait,” Kain said, “this contest discriminates against people with talents that don’t translate to stage.”

Charlie hesitated. “Well, everyone can do something! Telling jokes, beat poetry… solving Rubik’s cubes really fast! If you need any ideas, come and talk to me! We’ll work something out.”

“Ahh, is dancin’ allowed?” Angel Dust asked with his arm raised.

“Absolutely,” Charlie nodded, “dancing is a terrific form of exercise!”

“Perfect,” he said. “I’ll need a pole.”

Of course, Vaggie had some words to say about that. “I don’t think so. Pole dancing has certain, you know,  _ connotations _ -”

“But it’s a great form of exercise,” Angel said, deadpan. “Ya know how much upper body strength ya need to do it?”

Leslie nodded. If Angel could really pole dance, she had to see it. 

“We’ll consider it,” Charlie said. “More details are on the posters around the hotel if you’d care to look. But any other questions?”

Leslie put up a hand. “Who’s invited? Anyone, or just hotel guests? I might come watch with my friend.”

Blitzo fielded that one. “Open to the public. Bring whoever you want, but don’t forget to tell them about I.M.P.!”

“We have a workshop later for anyone with drug issues, and that aside, I think we’re done! Class dismissed.”

They got up, and Leslie heard interested grumbles from the others. Out of curiosity, she found the corkboard in the foyer and saw the aforementioned poster about the contest. It screamed the acronym “I.M.P.” in huge letters, and hung over her own flyer about dance lessons. Grumpily, she tore her flyer down and repinned it.  _ Ah well, _ she thought,  _ if there was ever a demand for dance lessons, it’d be now. _

o - o - o - o - o

“Lesbo! You’re falling behind! Get this to table 12.”

Mr. Rapier was calling her Lesbo, after she’d complained of a particularly handsy guest. It was best to ignore it. Working at this place had thickened Leslie’s skin pretty quick. She sighed and walked to the kitchen to grab a hot plate of something nasty. Today she was testing a new pair of food service gloves. They were heatproof, and less unwieldy than the dish towels. 

Leslie shimmied past some large, boil-covered inebriate and glided nimbly to table 12 to drop off the order. Then she saw him.

“Fuck.”

Alastor was at the door. His presence was noticed by other demons, and their physicality changed, becoming closed off. A few of them outright left. Al strolled to a table near the entrance himself near the entrance and flicked the scratched, sticky table-top in disgust. With a roll of her eyes, Leslie marched over.

“What the hell are you doing in this shithole?” she wanted to know. 

He grinned as always, conjured a tablecloth and flung it under the utensil caddy and menu stand, somehow without disturbing them. “I have to eat, don’t I?” he said, leaning on the table.

“You’d better not get me in trouble,” she said. “I need this job. Matter of fact, I’m going to get my friend to serve you.”

She turned to go, but he seized her wrist, stopping her. 

“This contest,” he said, examining her gloves. 

“What about it?”

“I don’t know if you’re aware; Husk is a bookmaker on the side. I happened to tell him what ‘accomplished’ dancers you and Angel Dust are, and he is taking bets on, amongst other things, who would score more highly between you two.”

Leslie’s eyebrows jumped. “But I’m not entering.”

“Let me finish! People are betting against you,” he said, still holding her wrist. “You’re unquestionably the underdog in this… but I think you have a chance of outshining Angel. Husk will be very happy if he can collect.”

”Well, that’s never going to happen,” she insisted, amazed at his audacity. “One, I’m still not entering, and two, Angel’s an adult film star who knows how to work the pole. I’m a dance teacher from East Jesus Nowhere.”

“Ah,” said Alastor, “but you’re also a woman, and that counts for more than you think!” That word echoed in her head; somehow, his calling her ‘woman’ was doing it for her. “Trust me, you could be stunning.”

“You sound like the exact opposite of my dad. Don’t you hate my dancing?”

Then came a rumbling yell from the boss. “Lesbo! Less chat, more work!” He noticed the Radio Demon. “Ah fuck, not you,” Rapier said, and waddled into the back.

Leslie grumbled now that Alastor knew her nickname. Fuck, why was he even here? Couldn’t this wait? He stuck out like a rusty nail in this place. “I guess I’ll take your order,” she said.

“You have your notepad?”

“Don’t need one.”

“Something with plenty of meat. Spicy or non, it’s all the same to me. That’ll be all.”

Leslie nodded. “I’ll tell my friend.”

He let her go and only sat down as she stalked to the kitchen, her face red. Mostly it was from anger, but there were, regrettably, other causes. The wrist grab could have come straight out of her daydreams. He knew it, too! Probably got a kick out of it. Alastor would pin her against a goddamn wall if he thought it’d make her squeak.

For the next half-hour, Leslie served the other customers and tried to ignore Alastor. He’d come during the midday rush, because of course he had. Once, from a safe distance where she could not be spotted, Leslie peered at him as he ate. Alastor used his own cutlery, and ate cleanly but like a lion, tearing into a mouthful of kabob with his sharp, sharp teeth.

Eventually he was gone, tablecloth and all. Ginerva, a medium-tall feathered demon from Colorado, caught up to Leslie in the kitchen.

“So that was Alastor,” she remarked nervously. 

“Unfortunately, yes. Were you OK?”

“Yeah, it was fine. Rapier told me not to charge him, but he left a tip. Isn’t that weird? Last guy had to have been, what, February. You want to split it?”

“Hell no.”

Ginny shrugged. “He’s not like I imagined,” she said. “I think it’s the manners that make him scary.”

Leslie picked up her next order. “You know, once you get past that, and everything he’s done, he’s just kind of a pest.” She had a thought. “Wanna stop by the hotel after work? He might leave me alone if I have company. Plus you’re kind of cool.”

Ginerva chortled. “Sure,” she said, “why not?”


	11. The Seven Deadly Sins

When Leslie and Ginerva entered the hotel, they were met with several walls of I.M.P. posters. An especially big one dangled from the metal chandelier above their heads.

“Unobtrusive, innit?” Leslie japed.

Ginerva broke into giggles, which proved to be contagious. They passed reception, ducked around the ladder upon which Niffty wobbled, placing more posters, and ascended the stairs to Leslie’s room. Immediately, Ginerva made herself comfortable, flopping on the bed.

“Mind if I roll one?” she asked. 

Leslie glanced up; she saw the sprinkler, but no actual smoke detectors. “I guess not. Let me open the window.”

“Thanks.”

They passed a few moments hanging out in comfortable silence, as Ginerva smoked a marijuana cigarette. Honestly, Leslie didn’t get the appeal. She’d never tried it, and she didn’t want to. Presently, Ginerva took the topmost of the two pillows and shoved it behind her. This was weird for Leslie. That pillow had its own life story at this point. Just last night, Leslie had lightly chomped its neck and whispered filthy things to it.

“Guess who got an earful from Rapier today,” Ginerva said. 

“Who?”

“That one guy who sleeps at the bar.”

“Aw nooo, Douglas.”

“Yeah, yeah. Poor D came in today as soon as we opened and fell asleep again, so Rapier got the air horn from behind the bar and… PAARP!”

Leslie shook her head, saying, “What an asshole. It’s like this whole place is just full of assholes.” They laughed. “Hey, Ginny, can I ask you a question?”

“You just did.”

“What did you do to come here?”

Her friend took a long toke. “Ahhh, it was either the stealing, or maybe the business I was running.”

“Dishonest practices?”

“No! Just some people don’t know how direct selling works. Some people in my downline went into debt, but it’s up to them to make the money back after they invest. I could handle it; they couldn’t. Not my fault.”

Leslie nodded slowly. “And now you’re a waitress.”

“Yeah. It’s bullshit.” 

“Can I ask you something else?”

“You just did.”

Leslie laughed. “Er… how did you cope with the new body, when you first got here?”

“Hm,” said Ginerva. She stretched one arm above her, and plucked a feather from it. “It took some getting used to. Especially when it came to bathing and stuff; I had to shower in the dark.”

Leslie smiled in relief. “I do that!”

“Yeah. I mean, even alive, I had insecurities. The old belly, love handles... but put it in perspective. You’re not the only fucker who looks weird, and there’s far uglier demons down here. So get used to it! Spend some time naked, get to know yourself, and eventually you’ll own it like you did before.”

“Huh.”

“You might as well. There’s no changing it now.”

“I don’t know,” Leslie said. “When I’m redeemed, they might give me a new body.”

Ginerva finished her blunt with a long, long drag. “I wonder if you get your old body back. Or if it’s like an off-the-peg thing. They wouldn’t let you choose,” she reflected. “Vanity.”

Leslie thought of her old body and sighed. “I don’t know why I’m here,” she said. “Did I tell you I got baptized?”

“Shit, really? I didn't have you pegged as that type, no offense."

It had been sometime before she married Karl. He once introduced her to his mother, as a friend. A religious woman who seemed ashamed of Karl, and skeptical of Leslie’s good influence on him, Leslie had the odd urge to impress her. Going to the cathedral to wash away her sins, and make of herself an honest woman, seemed like the right thing to do. In the end, she and Karl eloped, meaning his mother didn’t even attend. Funny how life worked out.

Leslie didn’t feel she could divulge all this to a relatively new friend. It was a lot. "Familial pressure," she told Ginerva. 

“So you did the full-body dunk and  _ still _ got sent to Hell? I’d be fucking fuming. Wanting to see the manager and everything.”

Leslie squinted at her. She couldn’t tell if she was serious. “This business of yours, what was it called?”

“LuLaRoe, why?”

“Just wondered,” said Leslie, having completed the mental picture of Ginerva in her mind. 

o - o - o - o - o

It took a few days for Alastor to reappear. He ambushed her at breakfast, stealing a piece of bacon from her plate.

“I think we have carrots somewhere, if you’d prefer,” he quipped.

“Hardy har, very original,” she said. “How do you always find me so fast?”

“I don’t,” he said, “that’s what teleportation is for, yes sir! Or madam, I should say. Have you thought yet about competing?” Looming above the table, he grabbed her cup of coffee and gulped it down. The taste wasn’t to his liking; she could tell by the noises from his soundboard. “How much sweetener…?”

“Listen, Al, you wouldn’t want me to compete,” she said, “not if I was doing it my way. Because Alastor is prejudiced against modern dance.”

“I’ve given it some thought, actually!”

“Oh?”

“Yes. The expressionism might be alright, if you were less tortured about it. When you dance with a partner, I’ve noticed, all the ugliness melts away!”

Leslie blinked. “Sorry, you’ve lost me.”

“When you designed dances between two people,” he asked, referring to her choreography, “what did they communicate to each other?”

“Depends on the context,” she said. “I’ve done stuff for music videos that were more, er, saucy, you might say. Sometimes it’s emotional ambivalence. Sometimes the dancers have the dynamic that they hate each other.”

“Yes! True passion. Just the kind of thing you’re missing when you’re by yourself.”

“You’re in no position to judge,” she challenged him. “I could have a hundred different solo dances in me. Besides, the only person you’ve seen me dance with is you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Well, I don’t know if I have the time. I am extraordinarily busy.”

“Wait - what?” 

“Ask me tomorrow; I might be in a better mood!” Alastor winked. 

“But- No! I’m not asking you anything!” He was such a wind-up artist. “Just for that,” Leslie fumed, “I will be performing: solo. And I’m doing it my way.”

“Really? Oh, nuts.”

Leslie sat back in her seat, with the niggling feeling she’d been tricked. “If you’re such a fan of competition,” she said, the thought just occurring to her, “why don’t I go up against you? Beat you?”

“Technically, I’m forbidden from partaking. You know, as a co-founder. Vagatha is doing all she can to prevent my direct interference, as a matter of fact, but she doesn’t know that I now have a horse in the race.” He leaned in. “Just do your best, alright, sweetheart?”

Leslie wanted to cry. It was too early in the morning for his smoldering intensity. She managed a nod. “My best,” she said, “sure.”

o - o - o - o - o

“Today’s session is about the deadly sins.”

Vaggie - or Vagatha, as was apparently her first name - wrote on the blackboard with a chalk screech that set everyone’s teeth on edge. She swiveled, pointing to what she’d written with her harpoon. “Gimme one sin.”

Leslie raised a hand.

“Wrath,” someone shouted. 

Vaggie nodded, then self-consciously lowered the weapon. “Good one. Leslie?”

“Er, pride.”

“Anyone else?”

“C’mon, ma’am, this is kid’s stuff.”

Vaggie glowered. “Fine, we all know the sins. What I want to stress is they’re all equally bad, OK? No sin on here is any better than the others.”

Kain shot his hand in the air, lowering it just as quickly. “Actually, the cardinal sins do have different levels of severity. It goes from Lust, a sin of the flesh, which is most forgivable, right up to the spiritual sin of Pride.”

A new demon known as Charcoal piped up. “How the fuck d’you know so much about Jesus stuff?”

“My da’ was a minister, not that it’s any of your business.”

Leslie made a note in her book. “Why’s pride the worst one?” she asked Kain, turning to him. “What’s so bad about it? Because maybe I’m doing something wrong.”

“Right, so supposedly, it’s the most  _ terrible thing _ to think you’re superior to others and put your selfish notions over their wellbeing. Like… if I had to give a fucking example... the father character from Angela’s Ashes, when he’s like, ‘Only beggars pick lumps of coal off the streets’ - meanwhile the family fireplace is sitting there cold and a couple kids have been bumped off already.”

Leslie nodded, though she hadn’t read or seen Angela’s Ashes. 

“Shall we get back on track?” Vaggie asked, tapping her foot.

“Sure. Can’t be having me do your job.”

“So, you  _ can _ split these into spiritual sins and sins of the flesh.” She drew a table, making columns for each, and for a while they divided the seven sins into either category. From her seat at the front, Leslie continued to make notes, wondering where all this was going.

“Ain’t that a pretty picture,” Charcoal said. 

“Yes, well. Who knows the opposites of these: the seven virtues?”

“Seven  _ deadly _ virtues?”

Vaggie ignored him. “The virtues are chastity, temperance, charity, diligence, patience, kindness and humility. They’re counterparts to the sins we already listed.” She wrote them down. “Not exact opposites, but if you practice these guys, it’ll go a long way towards curbing temptation. Because temptation is short-term, and giving into it shows you have low self-control. That’s why our extracurriculars use one or more of these. For example, if you’re patient, if you can forgive someone for upsetting you, then you don’t have to fight them. You’ve saved yourself time  _ and _ effort.”

“What if he fights me?”

Vaggie shrugged. “Leave?”

The sinners laughed at the idea. 

“What was the T one?” Leslie asked.

“Temperance: that means self-restraint, so, not being a glutton. Maybe we have some gluttons in this room?” Vaggie opened up the floor, and the floor was desolate, save for the occasional tumbleweed of indifference. “Doesn’t have to be food. Taking more than your share of anything. Alcohol.”

“Since we’re talkin’ about liquor,” Greg said in a fake Southern drawl, “are you aware the bartender’s been poundin’ the expensive stuff and drinkin’ outta the taps ‘till he falls over?”

Vaggie’s palm met her face. “ _ Gilipollas… _ that fucking cat.”

o - o - o - o - o

“Pleased to meet you, hope you’ve guessed my name,” Leslie sang, leaving the session, “but what’s puzzling you is the nature of my game…”

“Hey!” Angel Dust called to her from behind. He was walking with his friend Cherri (a person she’d met once, and seen many times on the news).

“Hi Angel, what’s up?”

“Little bird told me you were performin’ in the thing.”

“What? Oh yeah, I am. But I’m going to let you win.”

He laughed. “Let me? How gracious of ya, thanks. I mean, why partake at all if ya don’t want the prize?”

“It’s not that, it’s just... I want you to win it more,” Leslie explained. “You must have stuff from the living world you want back.”

Cherri seemed to wink her singular eye. “I think he’s got enough stuff.”

“‘Scuse me, sugartits, a lot of that belongs to my boy, OK? He deserves nice things.”

“Nuggets? Yeah, and I’m sure Charlie deserves not to have him shit all over her carpet,” Cherri teased, and the two gave each other friendly shoves.

Leslie blinked. She didn’t know Angel had… a dog, she presumed. Strange name for a dog. 

“Do me a favor,” Angel asked Leslie. “Get Charlie and Vags to get me a pole? They’ll listen to you; you’re like the teacher’s pet. Soon as possible would be great. I gotta practice.”

“Uh, sure. No problem.” 

Leslie felt, as she watched her friend walk away with his bestie, that lately she was being pushed in many strange directions. But how could she complain? It brought her back to her dancing, the thing she was best at. She just had to remember what this was about: demonstrating a skill. In an ideal world, her performance could inspire other demons to take up dancing themselves and discover the joy of movement. Charlie would be so pleased. It would be good for all involved, no matter who won the thing… and perhaps it would even transcend her desire to spite Alastor.


	12. Practice

Leslie left the shower in a cloud of steam, having washed away all evidence of her morning jog, and grabbed her towel. Since Ginerva’s visit, she’d taken every opportunity to be naked and ‘get used’ to her body. 

She wasn’t there yet. 

She still hated the fur and never felt entirely clean, but progress was being made. It wasn’t all bad, she tried telling herself. With a universally fuzzy pelt, there was no need to shave. Since she’d lost her tresses, the drying time after a shower was cut in half (though she did need to wring out her tail). And sometimes, maybe twice a month, she’d see her reflection and not hate it on sight. Leslie tended to focus on the eyes. They remained large, round, orangey-hazel, and she could just make out the old Leslie smiling through.  _ Windows to the soul, are those little peepers. _

All the same, she couldn’t get too comfortable. Self-acceptance could be the slippery slope to pridefulness, and Kain had labeled pride as the worst sin of all. Then again, missing her old body - thinking how relatively beautiful it was - could be construed as another form of pride. What a dilemma.

o - o - o - o - o

As for her part in the talent show, Leslie was content to lean on another past routine, for the sake of convenience. Her usual choreographing process took too long: she’d film herself as she improvised, salvage the better moves and string them together in a narratively interesting way. There was no time for that. There was barely time to practice at all, not since she’d picked up an extra shift. 

When she  _ was _ free, Leslie retreated to the abandoned room to run through the routine, or dance for its own sake. Alastor usually left her alone in this room, thank God; his constant barrage of smug  _ attagirl _ winks were starting, as her mother would have said, to get on her wick.

Of course, he didn’t always give her space to practice. Just yesterday, he barged into the abandoned room - or studio, whatever - and made her embarrassed. It started innocently enough with more terrible jokes from him.

“Why is it always  _ puns? _ ” she groaned, throwing a sock at him. 

“Because ‘brevity is the soul of wit’!” quoth Alastor, dodging the sock with ease. “Hamlet, second act. A quick joke, told well-”

“Yes, I know what it’s from!” she lied. “But the dad jokes aren’t witty. They just make everybody hate you!”

Alastor gave a mischievous chuckle, so she had to assume that was the point. “While we’re trying to understand one another,” he said, “why the awful music? The stuff that’s barely music at all, with those… what do they call that waiting period before the wall of noise in place of a chorus?”

“The drop?”

“Yes! Why wait for your music to improve? For want of a better word.”

Indignant, Leslie stormed across the room to fetch her phone. She’d show him. “Alright,” she said, switching to a different, yet similar song from her extensive playlist, “lemme put this in a way you might get. Say you’re going to explode someone with your powers. It takes a while to charge up, I’m guessing?” 

“Not really!”

“Come on. You have all that power at your fingertips, all the time?” Leslie argued. Shit, maybe he did. She tried to remember how quickly Alastor had shocked the leathery Egg Boi as it came to life.

“I’m not telling you about my powers,” he tutted. “You had your chance during our quid pro quo!”

Had she? God, that seemed so long ago. “Well,” Leslie said, finding an open space, “for the sake of argument, can you imagine needing time to charge up? That’s what the drop’s about.” She demonstrated as the song’s build section came in. Crouching low and rising, rising with the synthesized pitch, she kept her core strong, her arms straight and tensed. It was coming up through the floor. She prepared her body for what would come next, bracing her neck and shoulders, winding up. Then came the break - 4, 3, 2, 1! - and Leslie threw her head forward in a headbanging motion, then bounced back and swung into a hard shuffle. 

“You’ll pull a muscle,” he said. 

Nothing impressed him. Leslie eased off on the dance, so she could continue talking. “I’m used to it,” she said. “But you see what I mean? The drop is when all that excitement built up by the music is, you know, released. It gets people going, especially if there’s a crowd.”

“And you compare that to a suffusion of power?”

“Well, try it. Give me a second.”

Leslie skipped through the song, landing just before the next build section. She invited him to crouch with her, close to the ground, which he begrudgingly did. Even hunkered down together, he was taller than her. Leslie didn’t appreciate his disdain - she was done letting men put down the things she enjoyed - but at least he was trying to understand this new-fangled music. 

“Told you I’d be teaching you things,” she said. “Here we go. Imagine you’re reaching for your powers. It’s gradual. It’s a surge.”

“Hm.”

Leslie kept eye contact and tapped one hand against the other, to reinforce the beat of the song. Slowly she rose up; her thigh muscles protested, and yet she stayed strong. Alastor copied her, keeping his haughty grin, but his posture was building momentum. Dynamic, almost. 

Leslie counted down from 8, taking half a step back in case they felt like headbanging. As Alastor stood tall, he held one hand close to his chest, claws gently flexed. His legs were spring loaded. Leslie felt a tiny blip of panic, expecting to be attacked, but powered through it. 

“4, 3, 2, 1!”

In the middle of her bounceback, a burst of lightning shot from Alastor’s hand, and she shrieked and collapsed on the spot. The lightning crashed against the ceiling. From the above floor, she heard sundry demons complaining about the unexplained noise and sudden quake.

Leslie peered out from behind her ears. The ceiling was OK. No structural damage. Then, as she stood, she looked at Alastor. He seemed faintly surprised at what had happened.

“Whoopsie daisy,” he said. 

Leslie actually had to turn around. It was a stroke of merciful luck this room didn’t have a mirror, but Alastor must have seen the way she covered her face with her hands. “What’s the matter?” he asked, and she couldn’t answer. Why was she so hot and bothered about this? No, she knew why. The reflexive, knee-jerk bolt of energy… it was too much.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, “Just startled. But, um, you’d better go, I’ve got work to do. Go watch Angel practice.”

“I’d rather eat a squirrel,” Alastor said with dignity, and retired.

Even a day later, remembering the incident, Leslie wanted to slap herself. Of all the stupid reasons to be flustered… The worst part was not knowing whether he’d done it deliberately, and not knowing why he bedeviled her like this. She wanted to ignore him, and knew she couldn't. This did not bode well for her future; she should have lost her crush on him by now.

o - o - o - o - o

Friday night saw the worst weather in weeks, worse even than the acid rain. Leslie thought of it as a reverse thunderstorm. Instead of bolts of lightning, the sky above plummeted repeatedly into blackness, and awful high-pitched screeches disturbed the air. Leslie wished she could teleport home from work, or at least take a cab, but she was forced to walk.

Angel Dust, sitting at the card table beside a sleeping Husk, noticed her bad mood immediately. 

“First storm?” he guessed. “Don’t worry, ya get used to it.”

“Not only that… fucking madness,” Leslie muttered, fumbling in her pockets. “My boss paid for my extra shift in  _ cigarettes.” _ She showed him the pack of smokes she’d been given. “Can you believe that? He said that’s all he had. You want them?”

“Not my brand, but OK. How much?”

Leslie sighed, tossing them in his lap. “Just take them.”

“Er...” he grinned in confusion. “OK… What, this your good deed for the day? Brownie points with Him Upstairs?”

“You’re welcome.”

“Sorry, thanks. Just came outta nowhere.”

She gave him a slightly manic fake smile and went for the stairs, but Angel Dust left his stool (quietly, not to disturb Husk) and caught up.

“Er, Les? Not tryna be funny or nothin’, but you’ve been wearing the same cruddy clothes for two months. They’re falling off ya.”

“Oh. Yeah, true. I’ll find a thrift store next time I go out.”

“Well, whateva, but… any idea what you’re performin’ in? Ol’ Whiskers wanted to know.” 

“Who’s Old Whisk-?” Leslie stopped when she realized who he meant. “Oh, for God’s sake. This is about the betting thing, isn’t it?”

Angel nodded. “He told me. Somethin’ about him profiting if ya get more points than me. Y’know, I wouldn’t mind gettin’ in Husk’s good books. Think he’ll fuck me if I lose on purpose?”

Angel wanted a roll in the hay with Husk? Leslie frowned; she hadn't expected that.  _ Different strokes.  _ “Oh, you’ll win,” she told Angel. “You’ll do it by accident.”

“Prob’ly. Curse my effervescent charms!”

“But fine,” Leslie said, plucking her sweater, “I’ll find something else to wear, if it helps.”

“I have somethin’ you can borrow. Shrank in the wash, so it might fit ya. What are ya, a B?” He grabbed hold of her left tit. “Honk honk!”

“Stop that!”

“Yeah, it should be your size. Follow me.”

Leslie agreed to at least see the garment - anything to save her a few hellars. They traipsed up to Angel’s room, which had the same rouged furnishings as every other hotel room, but the personal debris was white and pink, like blobs of icing on red velvet cake.

An odd snuffling noise came from under the bed. “Fat Nuggets,” Angel explained.

As Leslie stood by, Angel raked through his closet: leather, latex, sequins, silk, a couple of feather boas. Besides his suits and other daywear, it was all textured, all sexy. She had a bad feeling about the clothes he wanted to lend her, and she was proved correct as he brandished a emerald-green babydoll dress - lace on top with a satin skirt.

“Cute, huh? Some fond memories of this thing.”

“Angel, no! It’s… well, look at it! It’s lingerie.”

He sighed and tossed it at her, the same way she’d given her cigarettes to him. “I don’t got nothin’ else this small. Try it on, at least?”

So Leslie thanked him and took the dress to her room. For a while, she gazed at its daunting fabric and had a crisis of identity. Dancers did wear flashy clothing, of course - she had first-hand experience of this with the dancers she coached in the living world. Bright colors, frills and feathers. A hem north of the knee, perhaps. This, on the other hand, was too much for her. No offence to Angel, but if Leslie wanted to show anything onstage - if she absolutely had to - it was the beauty and strength of her dancing, not a titillating flash of lace. 

Perhaps it had a little to do with Alastor, much as she hated to admit it. He wouldn’t care about her in sexy clothes, it wouldn’t change a thing, but  _ she’d _ turn as red as his hair, and possibly stay that way for the rest of her unnatural life.

Her worries were made irrelevant by the undesirable fit of the item. She tried and failed to close the back fastening by herself; it was stiff, and needed the help of a strong-armed friend, or at least a paperclip on a string. The straps were made for a demon with much smaller shoulders, and when she tested the roominess of the thing by twirling around the narrow floor space, arms raised, it mercilessly bit into her skin. 

_ Thank God.  _ She took off the dress, neatly folded it, and resigned herself to regular clothing.


	13. Why'd You Wanna Go And Put Stars In Their Eyes

Leslie attended a technical rehearsal the day before the show proper. Contestants came here by appointment, one at a time, as Charlie and Vaggie didn’t want them knowing (and potentially sabotaging) each other’s performances.

Already they’d set up the collapsible tables and chairs for the viewing audience. The second bar was operational, and the stage now had a metal pole in the center, running far, far up into the ceiling. Apparently Alastor had put it there, the same way he pulled the new front desk into the building. But that was days ago. Today, for Leslie’s tech run, she needed music and a few colored lights. A spotlight wouldn’t be necessary, she assured Charlie and Vaggie - it would be difficult to follow her movements, so she could go without it. She ran through her routine for them, avoiding the pole. Afterwards, Charlie clapped and sang her praises so highly that Leslie was almost uncomfortable; she wasn’t  _ that _ good.

“I’m not  _ that _ good.”

“Hey, you were in time, that’s all I care about,” Vaggie said, making notes on a piece of paper. “I can’t tell you exactly when you’ll go on, but you’ll know nearer the time. Hope that’s OK.”

“That’s fine.”

“We might play your music a bit louder,” Vaggie went on thoughtfully, “so we don’t hear you thudding around as much.” 

“I was thudding around?”

“It’s an old stage,” Charlie assured her, “just extra noisy, is all!”

Leslie stepped down and shook their hands, and then gave a thumbs-up to the demons behind the lights. She’d once had her turn at crewing for stage performance, and knew how important the role was. You didn’t overlook those people behind the scenes: they made it all happen.

o - o - o - o - o

Leslie felt a creeping anxiety the entire working day of the event. She couldn’t explain it. She’d performed in front of people before, many times, and taught others to do the same. Perhaps she expected the audience to be hostile. The denizens of Hell. Any old bastard - including the customers of Hades - could wander in off the streets and watch her. And why was she doing it? To make Husk happy, and by proxy, to make Alastor happy.

When they finished, Mr Rapier helped to close up the restaurant, and she was free by 7pm. Hoping to shake off some nervous energy, Leslie jogged home, and ignored a giraffe-demon yelling “Yeah, fight the power!” from the opposite sidewalk. She went to her room, changed into a long shirt and leggings, and did jumping jacks. Finally, she reported to the reception hall. Most of the contestants were there, milling around, warming up. The judges were present: Blitzo, talking shop with Charlie, and a pair of imps holding hands - actually showing affection! Leslie hadn’t seen an honest display of love since, well, Charlie and Vaggie’s private kiss. It was quite moving, and it made her smile. 

Leslie knew barely anything about imps, but she knew that, unlike damned sinners and a certain class of overlords, they could reproduce. She knew this because of a jog to Imp City, two miles each way, where she’d seen an impish mother and her offspring. The ability to have children was an odd trade-off for immortal life, Leslie thought, but maybe it was worth it.

Shaking away such thoughts, she went to find Angel Dust and make casual conversation. 

o - o - o - o - o

Thirty minutes to go, and Leslie completed her self-appointed task of lighting the centerpiece candles on each table. She surveyed the demons who’d come to watch. The event drew a bigger crowd than she expected, but not enough to fill the hall. Most demons stood at the bar, behind which Husk surreptitiously accepted bets. 

“Tova i malŭk podarŭk ot men,” said a squat, peanut-shaped demon, slipping cash over the table, adding in the same Eastern-european accent, “It’s Dragomir.”

“Dobre,” Husk responded as he slid the money into a fanny pack around his waist. He was especially grumpy of late; to stop him drinking their meager profits, Vaggie had locked the good liquor in a secret location. This also upset the clientele, since they were stuck with cheap, cumbersome booze. 

Fifteen minutes to go. 

Leslie glanced across the room, and saw Alastor for the first time today, in an especially nice suit with broad padded shoulders and long coat tails. He was talking to someone: a blonde, jubilant woman who dressed like a flapper, but didn’t have the figure for it. She spoke to Alastor with great zeal, practically hanging off his arm, and he in turn gave her the time of day, albeit reluctantly. Leslie raised an eyebrow. Old friends? She thought of Jack Sprat and his wife when she looked at them; then the guilt kicked in as Leslie remembered she was no basket of fruit herself. God, she and Alastor must have looked ridiculous with their height difference. 

As Leslie did a 180° turn, she bumped into Charlie.

“Hi!” Charlie said, holding the same clipboard Leslie once used to check in. It bore the telltale blue sticker on the back. “Excited?”

“Er, yeah, sure.”

“You’re going to be up three slots after Angel. So it goes Angel, Charcoal, Dainēd, and then you. Just to break up the dancing a bit. Is that OK?”

“Absolutely. Yup.” Leslie highfived Charlie. “Hey, no shame in coming second to Angel,” she added.

“That’s the spirit!”

o - o - o - o - o

The show began, as Blitzo of all people stole the mantle of emcee from Charlie. She let him do it, but it required him to madly dash between the stage and judges’ table every five minutes. He explained the points system - up to ten per judge, for a total out of thirty - plugged his business, and the first contestant, Niffty, was announced.

Twirling a cane, Niffty sang a song from Annie called ‘You’re Never Fully Dressed Without A Smile’, with the appropriate kicks and gestures. Alastor and his friend watched from the front row; Leslie couldn’t tell, but he seemed to be humming along. He was about the only person enjoying this. A whole row of demons stared at the stage with open-mouthed, incredulous boredom.

“Ah, the lovely Boylan sisters! Doo-doodle-oo-doo, doo-doodle-oo-doo, Doo-doo-doo-doo, Doo-doo-doo-doo!”

“THIS IS GAY!” a demon yelled, right before a piano dropped on his head with a discordant musical crunch.

Blitzo and his employees gave Niffty a combined score of 15, and Kain went on next, to read a highbrow piece he’d written about the joy of pain. It wasn’t funny, it didn’t rhyme and most of it went over Leslie’s head. At the end, Kain took a stage dive, despite the fact everyone was sitting at tables or stood by the bar, and he belly-flopped onto the parquet floor. He got a score of 9.

Leslie went to get a drink, barely taking in the next few slots as she sipped water. No alcohol, of course; it would affect her dancing. Husk was accepting a few last bets from his customers. “Danke… Blagodarya… Alright, that’s it,” he said, drawing a claw across his neck to drive it home.

When Alastor and his friend came to the bar for drinks, Leslie felt the urge to avoid them. Wasn’t her fear irrational? Alastor had no reason to antagonize Leslie or throw her off. He wanted her to get the higher score. In any case, Alastor and Leslie did not exchange words, only the occasional glance. 

Then Angel Dust had his turn; many of his fans quickly moved to the tables nearest the front. Angel confirmed Leslie’s assumptions of stealing the show with little effort, as he took to the stage in something dark, glittering and close to the skin. Already there were wolf whistles, and Vaggie and Charlie stood with uncomfortable pursed lips. Leslie wondered how many people were here strictly because of him… not that there wasn’t an existing wealth of content for anyone who was interested. 

His was a Depeche Mode song; just risque enough to be interesting, but not enough that Vaggie would disallow it. The dance was, of course, rather indecorous too - probably dialed up a notch from the one he’d given in tech rehearsal. Angel moved around the pole like a flame, teasing it, making love to it, figuratively speaking. Somehow Leslie felt he was showing more than he had in Backside to the Future 3. He was present, he was  _ here,  _ flaunting himself from every angle. With his many arms, Angel could hoist himself rapidly up the pole and cartwheel back down with a wink and a smile. The raunchy display was threatened when the pole itself dislodged from the ceiling and toppled like a felled tree. Alastor was suspiciously quick to laughter, and Leslie joined his flapper friend in staring at him. 

His astonishment notwithstanding, Angel evolved the fall into a forward roll and moved straight into another kind of dance: a kind of sexy crawl across the stage.

“What did I say?” a barely-audible Vaggie exclaimed to Charlie over the music. “He didn’t  _ need _ the fucking-!”

Angel finished with the splits, and his fans broke into applause, throwing him their cigarettes. Leslie applauded too. Such a quick return to form! Adapting a performance on the fly due to faulty apparatus? Truly masterful. Then, remembering Alastor’s laughter, she felt a stab of foreboding. He’d laughed as the pole came loose from the ceiling - immediately,  _ pre- _ immediately - and now he looked disappointed at Angel’s recovery. 

He was interfering, wasn’t he? Not in the way Vaggie forbade, but he had to be pulling some form of mischief.

“That’s a seven, seven and an eight, for a total score of 22 for Angel Dust!”

Leslie glared at Alastor as the following two contestants did their thing.  _ How dare you sabotage my friend? How dare you do it in a way that might hurt him and the first row of spectators? _ But there was nothing Leslie could do. She had no proof of his meddling, and no powers to stop him if he was.

Dainēd juggled oranges and pears before the judges.

Meanwhile, Alastor noticed her glare and returned with a strange flash of his eyes. Almost the opposite of a wink, his eyelids flicked upwards and returned to their resting position. It made him look quite sly. Light glinted in the glass of his monocle. 

Leslie fought back by glowering harder. This did nothing.

He examined one of his gloves, and frowned, as though unhappy with the fit. Instead of fixing this with a mere tug, he caught the cuff of said glove between his teeth and gave it a yank.  _ Oh no, oh no.  _ It was a weak protest this time, practically exhausted. Alastor was meddling, he knew exactly what he was doing, and he exploited that damned effect he had on her. Worst of all, he had further games in mind. She knew that in her bones.

He broke off the gaze as Niffty ran up to say hello, and he patted her on the head. As for Leslie, she was struck by a peculiar dizziness. It was a feeling she recognized from her college days, when she was heavily inebriated as a serious situation - a physical fight involving friends - broke out. In the moment, she’d been uncoordinated, dopey, sick with worry and confusion, her heart pounding like a tribal drum. She felt that way now.

_ Use it, _ she thought.  _ Use it in your work. _

Then Blitzo made the leap from stage to table. Then it was her turn.


	14. The Dance With A Devil

A woman of great power and highest standing attended the Hazbin Hotel this Tuesday night. She was searching for her friend, an old friend who had to be there. 

She did not appreciate the renovations. She could not even recognize them, but the crowd itself was a flurry of different colors, bright and dark. There was some truth to the song: inside of every demon  _ was _ a rainbow, and this overlord had the nose for them. 

How long had it been? A couple of months at least, since her last fruitless visit. The friend would be here. He loved events like this. Any excuse to put on the Ritz and look down on his inferiors. If only she had more to go on. The rounded tip of her parasol rolled across the floor, left to right, right to left. The room was stripped to the bones in her eyes, and the empty spaces were packed with muddy, irregular auras. She needed more - something of his - to locate that magnificent stag she was hunting.

Finally giving up, the woman retreated, as a mess of brown and orange ascended a raised platform to her left. Another time, perhaps, another day, but soon. He could not escape her forever.

o - o - o - o - o

Leslie suffered from mild stage fright. 

It was easy to dance in front of students, because they were there to learn: they trusted her as their mentor. Dancing before the indifferent eye of a camera lens was also fine. Coming onstage did something to her, though; her knees wobbled as she climbed the wooden steps, and her chest felt flushed. Luckily her fur would conceal the latter. The colored stage lights kept the audience in relative obscurity. Well, not all of them - off to the side, there were two telltale beams of red which she tried to ignore. 

Would they boo her for not doing as well as Angel? Those were some big shoes to fill, both figuratively and literally. 

Leslie gave the thumbs up, the signal for the crew to start her song. For a horrible moment, she imagined Fleur de Lille coming on instead, but it didn’t. She’d picked a song she personally enjoyed: a minor-key, slightly explosive electronic rock/dubstep kind of tune that Alastor would absolutely hate. As it faded in, she curled into position, crouching close to the floor. This dance would show what she could do alone, and she could lose herself to the music, if only for a short while. 

_ Sometimes I don’t know where we’re going _

_ Sometimes I feel you should be crawling back to me _

Leslie spiraled, tightly controlled, demonstrating her strength, the geometry she’d spent weeks crafting, years prior. It was all there, in her muscles.

_ Time is ticking by without us knowing _

_ Before you know it, it will be too late to see _

Only the music. She ignored his eyes, still flaring like the deadlights of a horrifying cryptid. As the dance continued, she used her signature contrariness, working against the pull of gravity, stopping short when her body wanted to fly. Ugly dancing. He would hate it. Good. Let him hate it.

_ You keep on talking but it makes no sense at all _

_ You try to fake it, but you’re breaking every rule _

She pivoted, then gasped in fright. Leslie stopped with her back to the audience. Something was standing there.

_ Right from the start you always made me feel a fool _

The stage lights should have killed every shadow but hers. This one was made of something stronger: a tall, humanoid silhouette with a long face and spidery fingers. It deftly stepped into a familiar dance, exceedingly light on its feet -  _ his _ feet - as though the whole body hung from marionette strings around the shoulders. 

_ The guilt you hide will come between us after all _

Leslie stared at him. The dance was swing, but it agreed with this rhythm and tempo: graceful sails, devastating landings. The audience was a wall of inky blackness, watching in excitement, suspicion, suspense. 

_ You keep on talking but it makes no sense at all… _

Her mind was changing. It was changing so fast. Finally, the shadow spun to a halt, so coolly masculine and self-possessed. He faced her and smiled. His index finger beckoned.

_ You keep on talking but it makes no sense at all _

Leslie barely realized how quickly she moved to meet him. The drop was coming, and she had to be there when it came. The shadow was solid to her, warm, not like a human being, but like the hood of a car. 

_ Sense at all sense at all sense at all sense at all _

Her hand was on his chest as he swung her to his other side. The rising urgency of music, a female voice sighing, screaming, growing louder instead of dying…. Finally it resolved itself, and dropped.

Leslie anchored to him at the hip, letting herself go. She back-bended as far and fast as a slinky, much more than her previous 90 degrees. Her mouth fell open, afraid her head would crack against the stage, but the shadow caught her arm, easing her descent at the last crucial moment. Somebody hooted.

_ Sometimes I don’t _

And now it was her tapestry to weave, as she moved into the floor work with swoops and curls; meanwhile, the shadow stepped in a circle above. He knew Alastor’s moves, but he was bolder, uninhibited. When he gave his hand, she took it, springing into his arms. The music was so loud, she felt the bass more than she heard it. Leslie’s bones rattled. If only she clung tightly to the Shadow Man, she might be OK.

He twirled her, then they joined hands, their arms crossed. Leslie spun away from him, her arms uncrossing, and crossing again. Then he spun away from her, stooping, so she could guide him through the same motions. The pull of centripetal force kept them together.

_ Before you know it, it will be too late to see _

Leslie felt him lift her leg over his hip bone.  _ Bones… Yes. Lift me. Don’t let me go.  _ She tensed, clutching his shoulder blade, and he let her. God, he was gorgeous. It made her head ache. The shadow was drinking her with his eyes, and Leslie drank him, not knowing what her body did. Any moment, she would be like him, a living inkblot with a charcoal skeleton - substance - that could do anything it wanted. 

Their music died a little. She didn’t care. It would build again, the way she’d taught him. Leslie threw back her head and laughed. Coming around, she dipped low, snaking under his legs and out the other side. Now a little more swing, just for fun, flirting with normality for a spell before he yanked her in again. So powerful he was. So male. 

_ Sometimes I feel you should be crawling back to me _

_ Time is ticking by _

A thrill passed through her as his form changed beneath her hands. Thorns, antlers, talons. All wonderful. He threw her behind him; one of those ambitious springboarding flips that actually worked this time. Shoulder to shoulder, she was thrown into the air, landing on her feet. More dancing. He was straight, secure, and she was free and fluid, like a ribbon around the maypole. Back together, closing the space between them, every scrap of it. Spinning, spinning… The chorus, the second drop. She barely heard it. Too busy being his outline. 

_ talking but it makes no _

Leslie wished it wouldn’t end. She’d die when the music stopped. But he was holding her - this beautiful, hot-blooded creature - he’d got her. They were back-bending again, together, Leslie atop the shadow as he folded in half, hands and feet planted on the ground. She draped over him like a cloth. Then he lifted one leg up, between hers, pointing at the ceiling, which was the floor to her, upside-down as she was. Now she was slipping back. Leslie’s palms met the wooden boards; she fell into a handstand, just as the shadow man faded.

He was gone.

She toppled onto all fours. Terra firma. A graceless landing. Leslie felt her mind clear, as though some evil glamor had lifted. Then she noticed the crowd, a mix of stupefaction and lewd stares… not to mention those red eyes in the middle distance.

Only for a moment was she frozen like a rabbit in the headlights. Blitzo conferred with the other judges, calling faintly after her as she ran back down the steps. She didn’t want to look at anyone. She didn’t want to think what they might be thinking. 

Vaggie intercepted her, hands firmly on Leslie’s shoulders. “Hey! What was that about? That’s not what… we rehearsed… What’s the matter?”

“Ayyyyy, così impressionante! Leslie’s got some balls!” said Angel Dust, suddenly at her elbow. “And there ya were making out like you was no competition! Why’d you laugh in the middle?”

Leslie shook her head. “What? Laughing?”

“Yeah, ya did the whole flip-top head. Hey, calm down! You’re a’right!”

She wasn’t. There was nothing to say. More ashamed than she’d ever been, Leslie buried her face, ran blindly through the crowd and left the hall behind her.


	15. The Confrontation

It was an hour later. Leslie lay on her front in bed, her face in her hands, when she heard the familiar static. She dragged the tears from her eyes, but knew her throat would crack and betray her.

“Get the fuck out of my room.”

“You don’t want to know how it came out?”

“No.”

He stood there, humming some silly showtune to himself, like he was  _ trying _ to draw her ire. 

“What?!”

“Something amusing happened at the end. Turns out Blitzo fancied himself as a performer, and gave his own song and dance. Gave himself the winning score, with the cooperation of the other judges. Nobody was happy, of course! You should have seen their faces. Imagine! If I was allowed to interfere with the contest more directly, none of that nonsense would have happened.”

Leslie pulled herself up, kneeling on the mattress. She hated to look at him right now, but it was better than lying there like a stubborn child. “I don’t care,” she told him, “get out of my room, I don’t want to see you.”

He was beaming, crinkling around the eyes; now  _ that _ was ruined for her, on top of every other horrible thing tonight. “Angel came up short,” he reported. “Only by a single point, but I think Husk will be very pleased. Cheer up, my darling, you beat him! And you made every man in that room fall in love with you.”

That did it. Leslie flung herself off the bed, stormed up to Alastor and shoved him in the ribs. 

“How fucking dare you,” she said. “You think I give a shit about getting attention? That’s not how I wanted to dance! What did you do? Did you hex me?”

“If I told you yes, would you feel better?”

“What does that mean?”

Alastor smiled thinly now, patiently. “Leslie, I’ll be frank. We both know your solo work is  _ technically _ impressive, but it doesn’t have the heat and intensity of dancing with a partner. You needed that to gain the edge! You needed your audience to visualize themselves in the shadow’s place. Oh, and I wish you could have seen yourself, you and him… what a pair you made!”

“That’s… You can’t-!”

“Yes, I conjured him. Yes, I made him move, and yes, I watched you from the wings… so interesting it was, to have two different perspectives… But darling, I did not make you do anything.”

Leslie shook her head, willing herself not to make fresh tears. “You’re a liar.”

“How about this? I’ll apologize, if you tell me you didn’t enjoy what happened, at least a little.” He took a step towards her and maddeningly stroked her chin. “It wasn’t so different from how we danced before.”

And something about the way he said that made her pause. She was about to unleash all her righteous rage upon him; instead, he forced her to self-examine. There was no way to downplay what they’d done. Clearly she’d enjoyed the dance. Sixty-or-so people bore witness to the fact that Leslie truly, madly, deeply wanted the shadow. The shadow who moved like Alastor, the bolder version of Alastor she’d been yearning to meet… but he was right. It wasn’t so different from before, because they had rehearsed it. It was practiced.

Once again, she covered her face.

“What’s the matter?”

“The matter,” she said, “is… I don’t know. Maybe some things should stay private. Our dance wasn’t for anyone else, you understand?”

“You consider that first time sacrosanct?”

She looked at him, and let silence hang in the air. The absolute nerve...

“You know what?” she said, “I’ve had it. I’m done.”

“What are you doing, Leslie?”

Gathering up a few strewn items of clothing, including some underwear she tried to hide under her arm, Leslie said, “I’m going to leave this damn hotel and go somewhere you can’t find me, and I’m going to redeem my damn self.” 

“Come on, stop, stop. Use your words. Tell me what the issue is!”

“You know exactly what the fucking issue is. Let’s be clear on something, Alastor, there’s a lot about you that I find... sickening. You clearly only come to me to play with when you’re bored, because you think I’m easily controlled. And hey, maybe you’re right on some level, because you’re also the kind of man I’m attracted to for  _ all _ the wrong reasons.”

“Such introspection you have.”

“Oh, shut up,” she said, dropping the clothes. “I mean, any normal man I have a crush on, he lets me down gently and we can move on with our fucking lives. Not you, though, oh no, not the Radio Demon. What else is the dancing all about? Clearly you use it to... say things to me, with the way you move and the way you look me in the eyes. You know I’m receptive to that shit, and you know that I’m supposed to think you can’t possibly lead me on, because you don’t fancy anyone, which is the perfect excuse to lead me on, as it turns out!”

Alastor stood there, as still and hard as some ancient tree. “I beg your pardon?”

“And you know my judgement is impaired. Lt’s acknowledge it, you have the power to drive me absolutely crazy, even though your personality is bullshit! Vaggie was right about you. You’re a manipulator who only cares about himself. Fair enough, I know where we are… but why are you punishing me for turning weak when I look at you? It’s… I don’t understand!  **Why won’t you leave me alone?”**

Alastor shook his head in disbelief and didn’t answer her questions. “So you’re checking out,” he said, “right this instant.”

Leslie wasn’t having it. She refused to be talked to like a toddler throwing a tantrum. This was the first adult decision she’d made since checking in to this godforsaken place. “I’ve got to go,” she said. “I can’t be around you anymore.”

“Leslie, sit down. I’m about to disabuse you of some things.”

“Get away from me.”

“SIT-” he said, lifting her by the shoulders with unexpected ease, “down.”

Alastor dropped her atop the wooden chest of drawers. For the first time since she’d known him, he placed her at an appropriate height, so they could converse eye to smiling eye. Leslie was not a violent person, but she stared at his antlers, now within reach, and fantasized about grabbing them and shaking his fucking head until his eyes rolled around like marbles; only the threat of retaliation stopped her from doing it. 

“First of all,” he said, speaking calmly and evenly. He stood, waiting for her to stop glaring, but she didn’t. He pressed on. “First of all... yes, it is amusing to make you so easily flustered. You don’t find many bashful little sweethearts in Hell.” 

“I’m not bash-”

“Punishment is not what I had in mind. Second of all, listen closely now: Vagatha, and the world at large, are mistaken in telling you that I cannot want another person. It happens every few decades, but that’s a secret I prefer to keep. Being pursued is so tedious, and it happens so often to me! You have no idea. The tiniest ray of hope and they follow me, drooling, to the ends of Hell and back! Vox, Angel Dust, Rosie… You saw Mimzy, my friend from years ago? Her too, I’m sorry to report! So, as a rule, maintaining a certain reputation keeps them away.”

Leslie remembered the way Mimzy hung from Alastor’s arm like a rhesus monkey. “Wait…” she frowned. “What are you talking about? What does that have to do with me?”

“I shouldn’t  _ want _ to give you hope,” he explained. “I should want you to leave, to take any hopes of redemption with you, far away from this hotel, where I have a vested interest in watching sinners fail! But, I must say, you are intriguing. It’s a delicate balance with you. Attraction  _ and _ repulsion. Easy to play with, but a challenge to domineer.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’re more obvious about wanting me than you’d like,  _ but  _ you’ll resist if I cross a line… like you just have.” His voice had some clarity now; it was losing the fuzz of the radio. Even now, as stunned as she was, Leslie considered that this could be manipulation, to fool her into thinking he was sincere. “Watching you melt in the arms of a shadow man was quite something, my dear; but I prefer the way you look at  _ me, _ with the trepidation I deserve. It’s so very, very flattering. I want to know what other  _ reactions _ I could lure out of you. I want to shatter the sensibilities of Hell’s sweetest little bunny, and if it must be a matter of the flesh, the corporeal, then so be it.” His hand came to rest on her knee as he finished with a proposition: “Let me play with you.”

That same knee of hers began to tingle. Leslie was overwhelmed: there was too much to process. She felt herself split in two with a paper-tearing sound: the half of her that thought what a nightmare Alastor was, and the half that wanted to tackle him onto her bed and do what came naturally. But she couldn’t fall for it, not again. 

“You’re all talk,” she said, voice higher than usual.

“I’m sorry?”

“Play with me? This sounds like leading me on with extra steps. Good God, you’re… you’re worse than a tease. Teasing implies follow-through, at least. All you’ve given me until now is vapors, Al. I can’t live on that. It’s humiliating. Please find someone else to toy with.”

“Leslie. I don’t make this kind of offer every day. Be my plaything on your own terms,” he said. “I am offering you… well, let’s make a deal on it! How much do you want from me?”

She looked up. Here it was again, a prospective pact. But she had experience with those. Perhaps this time, it could work in her favor. 

“Physically?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Everything.” 

He exhaled softly through the nose. “That’s hardly a compromise.” 

“Was making me dance like that a compromise?”

“I think so.”

“Then do what you always do and make a fool out of me,” she said, deflating. “Put a long, long time limit on it. The next extermination? Sometime before one of us could be erased.” 

“I can work with that!”

“And you can’t tell anyone what you’re up to.”

“My dear, cast your mind back a moment. I still have a reputation to uphold. Discretion would be paramount!”

“Good.” 

Then, perhaps to show willing, he kissed her quickly on the ear. Leslie experienced a sudden warm flush, like a radiator being turned on, and her remaining anger vanished.

“...Holy shit,” she said. “Holy _ shit.  _ Is this real life?”

“Afraid so.” He held out his hand, glowing green, and an unexplained breeze tickled Leslie’s cheek. She leaned away, careful not to touch him in case some horrible deal went through.

“Uh…” she said, “y’know, this- this is happening pretty fast, right? And, we have a lot to discuss. How about we get this on paper?”

“But paperwork is so boring…”

“I think I have to insist! We want to, you know, protect our interests…”

“Hm,” he said, drawing back as he considered it. “You make a good point. How about this, then? I’m going to leave you for say, half an hour, and when you open your door, it will lead to my office. You’d better be there, young lady.”

She nodded and waited for him to stop talking, to see his face in repose. Still amused, possibly by her reaction. Leslie looked at his scarlet eyes, that smile, the razor line of his jaw. Maybe if they gave it a few more seconds, he’d have to kiss her to break the tension.

No, too late. With a snap of his fingers, he was gone. 

Now she was alone, it all came out. Leaping back on the bed, she cried, she laughed, she cringed, she muffled her excited squeals with her own ears… This was a momentous revelation. She had to reconfigure everything she thought she knew about Alastor. Now he was a different being entirely, a red-blooded man who not only knew how he affected her, but potentially meant every part of it. There was meaning behind his looks and the way he touched her. Wants. Desires. Holy shit.

Finally Leslie felt the anxiety creeping in in earnest. Her stomach became a basket of worms as she prepared to enter his office.  _ Be logical for once in your life, _ she begged.  _ Don’t lose your head. It’s all too much. Please God, know what you’re doing... _


	16. We, The Undersigned

“‘We the undersigned, Leslie Nicholson and Alastor, no-last-name-given, do solemnly swear, before such time as midnight on the 1st of December…’” Alastor read it with the bored, impassive tone of a professor looking over the umpteenth essay of the day, then his eyes flickered to Leslie across the desk. “And from there,” he said, “you should describe the minimum you require of me, in exchange for the things I want from you.”

Leslie sat back in the guest chair. Just thirty minutes ago, she was prepared to leave the hotel, and now they were completing paperwork together. First of all, she was amazed she’d got him to agree to a written contract, but she wondered if, perhaps, he would still have the upper hand. Alastor was a dealmaker, after all.

“What  _ are _ the things you want from me?” she asked. 

“I’ll be detailing that shortly. First, I want you to write-”

“I know, I know.” Leslie gazed at the intimidatingly blank sheet of paper which sat before her on the desk. “So… if I omit something, it won’t happen, right? Or the other way - something could happen, when I don’t actually want it to.”

“You’ve used contracts before. Yes, I’m afraid this document will have to be quite graphic. But it was your idea, I’ll remind you, and nobody will see it. It shall, however, be binding. Once we sign, I’ll be compelled to do as the agreement says, as will you… but we can always leave some room for bargaining. It’s more interesting that way.”

“I want a lawyer,” she said.

“Hell is full of them. But I think you have a good sense of what is reasonable and enforceable.”

“Right,” Leslie said. “And we can amend as we go?”

“That’s right. Go ahead.”

“Hm.” She hesitated. “Well, there’s no singular scenario in my mind. It goes different ways depending on my mood.”

“Do I ever... hurt you?” Alastor asked. His eyes glimmered with possibility. 

She couldn’t lie to him. “A little,” she said.

“Interesting.”

“Well you know, a woman’s heart is an ocean. Ha ha…” He wasn’t laughing. “OK, I’m writing now.”

“Good.”

Leslie considered what she was prepared to write: the things she wanted to pass between them. “Hm,” she said, not knowing where to begin. 

“You’re blushing, aren’t you?” he said. “Poor baby.” 

“Can you let me make bad choices for five minutes without passing comment?”

To be fair, he stayed silent for some time, watching and listening to her write. She would glance up occasionally to make sure, and he never looked away, even for a fraction of a second. Leslie remembered every fantasy she’d ever conjured, every exchange, every scary, demonic fuck, and knew that he was about to read it, possibly aloud. It was a new and exquisite form of humiliation, but she persevered, knowing it would be worse in the long run to omit it from the contract, and live with regret.

Eventually, having clinically detailed her private, feverish imaginings, she set down the pen. She was finished for now, and her ears felt white-hot from the anticipation of what came next. He leaned forward and took the papers, then read what she had written - silently, thank God! 

“Let’s see here.” His casual smirk stayed put for some time, until a later sentence caused his eyebrows to rise. “Hm. Not exactly what I was expecting.”

“Which part?”

“This.” He showed her, tapping his claw against the offending line.

“I thought you’d like that,” she said. Didn’t most men? He laughed quietly, biting his lip, and Leslie summoned the strength not to melt onto the floor and ruin the carpet forever. “Your move, Alastor.”

He turned his wicked gaze to the document and began to write, left arm curled around the paper, taking his time. To her amusement, he paused now and then to look at her, just as she’d paused for him. 

“How’s this?”

Leslie examined the block of text. She had to admit, he had lovely handwriting. Perhaps a calligraphy lesson from 80 years ago. First of all, Alastor reiterated what he said before: he wanted her to be reactionary, flustered, fearful, and so on; but if he was worried about that, he had no reason to be. She was going to feel that way no matter what. He also proposed his own ideas for future encounters. Many of them agreed with hers; others were less standard, more experimental. “I don’t think you can do that just by murmuring to me,” she said. 

“But you’ll allow me to try, of course.”

She blushed again. “I guess.” Back to reading. “Er... OK, OK, drawing blood I’m  _ definitely _ not sure about.”

“Ah,” he said, “but with my teeth, it may happen accidentally. Besides, I can heal you a second later. Not even a scar.”

This she had to see. “Show me,” she said, offering her wrist across the desk, and almost as quickly, Alastor’s hand snaked out, scoring a line in her flesh. “AAAHyafucking—-!” She withdrew her arm. _ What an idiot. Exactly what he wanted you to do.  _

“Well? Let me fix it.”

Grudgingly, she obliged, and watched him trace the cut with his fingertip. As he tasted the blood, Leslie was astonished to see he had kept his word. No sign of injury, no pain; only a few hairs were missing.

“How-?”

“Demons can recover quite quickly, I just sped it up. Was that bearable?”

She glared at him, suspicious at his intentions, wondering what a man as cruel as Alastor was doing with a capability for healing. An image swam to mind of him leaning over one of his victims, closing up his lashes from the whip in order to make new lashes, and that was a terrifying thought. Seizing the pen, she declared, “This is not an excuse to torture me. I’m making a list of places where cutting and biting isn’t allowed.”

“Spoilsport. Fine.”

“And scratching,” she added. A thought occurred. “...OK, soft biting, maybe.”

“My turn again?” He borrowed the paper. “I think the office only, although I may change that at my discretion, so long as it doesn’t break our secret.”

“No PDA,” she said.

“No PDA. ... Alright. Go ahead and review it,” he said, sounding impatient. Leslie tried to ignore his drumming fingers against the desk. She did not want to be rushed with this Faustian deal with the devil.

“Right. ...Right.” She reconsidered the worst-case scenarios. Outside of serious injury, what else could he do to her? He could tease her, deny her… but the latter was his prerogative, and the former was his reason for liaising to begin with. “Pen, please? There.”

He was puzzled by her next condition. “What does this mean?”

“Er. Shit. This is where you make it easy and read my mind.”

“Just tell me. I like to see you flustered.”

Leslie steeled herself. It was OK. They were adults who could use adult language. “Hoo. OK, so, ‘ruined’” she said. “Have you ever been so close to coming that a single finger stroke was enough to do it, and it was the opposite of satisfying? I’m saying  _ that _ doesn’t qualify.”

Alastor clicked his tongue. “Can I convince you to remove that clause?”

“No.”

He snatched the paper back. “Then I’m adding that Leslie must report her climaxes honestly.”

“Hopefully it’ll be obvious. Add the same for you,” she requested.

“Why do you care about mine?”

“I just do. I think it’s hot.”

Al’s studio audience reacted with whoops and raucous laughter. “You have turned bright red, by the way.”

“I know.” Wait, how could he tell? Maybe he’d called her bluff, or maybe he could feel the heat from her face, hot enough to fry bacon. 

Back to writing he went. “Now this states that it shall be as easy to withdraw as to consent during a meeting, excepting the final date in my case, so as not to make the contract unenforceable. However, I may still try to persuade you, and vice versa.”

“That means you could do your tease-and-denial thing right up to the extermination,” she said.

“It’s a risk you’ll have to take!”

“Fuck. I knew it.”

“You may enjoy some of it,” he said in a low voice.

“Hm.”

The amendments continued for a while as they polished what had come before, adding new terms as they occurred to Leslie. On some level, the idea of forging such a contract was absurd. There were so many strings attached with this man. But, she supposed, by definition there had to be strings: they couldn’t really trust each other, the way a normal couple could. Couple was the wrong word. What even was this?

At last, Leslie nodded. “OK, I think I’m done.”

He sighed. “Good, it’s been an hour! Give it here and I’ll sign.” He did. “Now you.”

She placed her full name beneath his, then initialed and numbered every page. It was done. This was happening.

“Super,” she said.

“Satisfied?”

“I’m sure I will be.”

The papers, which had started as a single leaf and expanded to three, were taken up by Alastor. In a flash of green light, they disappeared from his hands. “You know,” he said, getting up, “there are some areas I already know you failed to consider!”

She sighed. “Thanks for telling me before I signed the damn… what areas?”

He pulled her up into his arms, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “I  _ can _ take different forms,” he said into her ear. “All manner of shapes! Shapes that could be… an adjustment for you.”

“What?”

“Just a jest. But think about it in bed tonight. Farewell for now, little bunny.”

o - o - o - o - o

Of course Leslie didn’t sleep. She couldn’t! If her head was a hotel, the events of this night were an ungodly mix of Baxter’s chemicals, combined to make an explosion. 

Sometimes she recalled something that made her smile, like his arm around the paperwork as he wrote. Sometimes Leslie felt the rhythm of the heat between herself and Shadow Man. Then there were Alastor’s words. “A matter of the flesh,” he’d called it. “Be my plaything” was another stunning phrase. “An adjustment”... Good lord, she would have to make new space in her brain to process that one.

There were also small regrets. She shouldn’t have admitted that certain fantasies of hers involved pain. Mostly it was because she expected it of him, to inflict pain, to enjoy doing it, to need it. Was it so wrong that she’d acquiesce to his presumed darker desires in her own head?

Well, she’d have to think about it some more. Get used to the idea that she and Alastor were getting to know each other. She’d have to… prepare. 

God, what would Vaggie think of all this? Fraternizing with the Radio Demon could be grounds for immediate expulsion from the hotel… or maybe Vaggie would see her as the helpless victim in all of this, if she ever found out. Leslie was reminded of her own performance with the Shadow Man and knew there’d be questions to face in the morning. Something else to prepare for. She was still thinking hard, turning it all over in her head, when the first fingertips of dawn through her mullioned window announced a new day. 


	17. Greasing The Wheels

Blitzo and Loona rocked into the office a tad later than usual on Wednesday, and his other employees had been cleared to do the same. It wasn’t easy, judging a talent show one day and maintaining a business the next. He himself had a headache, which he attributed to the cacophony of boos from the contestants. What was the big deal? Blitzo gave the best performance, there was no helping that! He’d have voted for himself even if he  _ wasn’t _ himself. 

I.M.P. got a major plug though, and that was the main thing.

Loona went immediately to Reception, crushed Tylenol into her energy drink and chugged it. Half an hour later, Moxxie and Millie showed up. “Look who’s finally here!” Blitzo said, pretending to throw his desk toy at Mox’s head, and laughing when he ducked. 

“Sir, you told us-”

“I know, I’m just bullshitting. Saw the new rims on the car, by the way. Nice job. Ha! Nice rimjob.”

Moxxie gave him the stink eye and stormed to his desk. Millie followed her husband as Loona checked the answering machine messages.

“So?” Blitzo inquired, drumming his desk. “Did all our promotions pay off? Are we inundated with calls from condemned suckers?”

“Fucking gimme a minute, will you? I can’t…”

“Take your time, Loonie.” She was just his special little girl, yes she was! Swiveling in his chair to face Millie, Blitzo asked her, “When are you guys having a baby?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Well, c’mon, you must want your family to grow! I know I do.”

“The family  _ you _ want to grow isn’t supposed to be  _ our _ family,” Moxxie said through his hands. 

“I think it’s sweet,” Millie said in that musical twang of hers. 

Blitzo nodded. “See? I’d be a great uncle, I’ll bet.”

“Can you focus on being involved with your own relatives?” said Moxxie, and he gestured to Loona as she flopped against her desk. “Then maybe things would run smoothly around here.”

Blitzo had to admit, that hurt. First, it implied that he’d made Loona a screw-up somehow, which he hadn’t, because she wasn’t. Second, he was sad to feel excluded. He had enough love for everyone, big or small. If the Grinch’s heart had grown three sizes from the beginning of  _ his _ book, then Blitzo’s heart put that to shame by consistently having been… at least…  _ five _ sizes larger than average! He didn’t know where this train of thought was going, but he wrote ‘Grinch<Me’ on a post-it note, as a reminder to polish this into a snappy saying.

Loona dragged her head up. “One call from Desdemona. She still wants the rent.”

“Uh-huh. Anything else?”

“Yeah, someone asked for a callback this morning. Sounded like a new voice. Hard to tell, the line was bad.”

Blitzo leapt into the air and pumped his fist. “Business is booming, my friends!”

“Sir, one customer is not enough to save the company.”

But Blitzo paid him no heed. He danced back into his office and asked Loona to put him through to the new guy. “Howdilly-doodily, customerino! What can I do ya for?”

There was a pause from the other end. “First of all,” he said, and the call quality was atrocious, “you can conduct yourself with a little dignity.”

“Hey, it’s a Simpsons reference. No need to get your panties in a twist… uh, sir. How can we help you, anyway?”

He was an odd one, this guy - didn’t even want anyone killed yet! Instead, there were a few characters from the living world he wanted information on. Blitzo tried to explain that the company was more about mercenary killings than espionage, but that answering-phone message from Desdemona came to mind, and he played along. He wrote down the names of the targets on a fresh post-it, sticking the other one on his desktop computer. 

“Start with the former,” the caller said, “you’ll find him easier to track.”

“Gottit. Alright, good day, sir.” Blitzo hung up and burst back into the main room. “Hey everyone! Guess what the fuck we’re doing today! Grab some sack lunches ‘cause we’re going upstairs!”

o - o - o - o - o 

Despite her lack of sleep, Leslie had the best morning jog she’d ever had in Hell. She was filled with helium. Her legs ran on their own, and for the last quarter-mile of her return, she danced through the streets like Gene Kelly, making the music in her head and ignoring bystanders.

_ Alastor, Alastor, Alastor. _

They had a deal. It was written. Yes, there was something horribly wrong about it, but that was part of the thrill. Leslie found nothing better than the earliest stages of entanglement, those helpless ‘what-are-we-doing’s… Dear God, she’d forgotten all about it.

She didn’t check her mobile until 8am, when she returned, daisy-fresh from a shower, and plugged the thing in to charge. Then the home screen was illuminated, and Leslie saw several unread texts from Vaggie and Charlie, and a few missed calls. 

She wasn’t surprised they knew her number - she reported to the front desk when her phone was returned - but clearly they’d been worried. All those texts, and she hadn’t noticed!  _ This must be the longest fucking time,  _ she thought,  _ in years, that you’ve been awake and not looked at your phone.  _ Preferring not to look Vaggie in the face, Leslie returned the missed call, and hoped she wasn’t catching Vaggie at a bad time. 

“Where have you been?” Vaggie said. “We knocked on your door last night and you weren’t there.”

_ Must’ve been in Al’s office _ .

“Hi, yeah, I’m sorry about that. Um… don’t worry about last night. Obviously it wasn’t what I rehearsed, but-”

“Alastor was making you do something you didn’t want to?”

Crap. “What makes you think-?

“We’ve seen his shadows before. Les, don’t try to protect him, alright? We saw you run off in a panic.”

Leslie affected an easygoing, yet apologetic tone as she replied, “Oh, yeah! I don’t know what that was about. Some people in the front row were leering at me and I didn’t know how to handle it… but it  _ was _ pre-practised.” (This was true, and it sounded true when she said it.) “Al was trying to help me win, or at least get people interested enough to want dance lessons. That’s all it was, and I’m sorry if I… You know, that was wrong of me. It’s your show and Charlie’s, and you deserved to know what I was going to do…”

There was a pause as Vaggie took this all in. “Why would he help you?” she asked. “Alastor doesn’t do things out of the kindness of his heart, Les.”

Leslie couldn’t mention the bet. That would get four people in trouble at once, and one of them was her best friend in this place. “All he wanted was a chance to perform,” Leslie said, meaning Alastor. “That’s what he said, anyway.”

Vaggie sighed in irritation. “For God’s sake… like he doesn’t show off enough in his own time!”

“Yeah. Like I said, I’m really-”

“Stop apologizing, Les. The talent show went wrong in fifteen different ways, including a fiasco with the judges that you missed. We’d have been stressed out anyway. Just… don’t get into agreements with that creep.”

_ Too late, _ Leslie thought. “Thanks for checking on me, Vaggie, I appreciate it. But I’ve got work in a few hours, so…”

“Alright. See you soon.” 

Leslie hung up. Who knew she lied so competently over the phone? Something to workshop out of her, when it was convenient.

o - o - o - o - o

As planned, Leslie used the next day, her day off, to prepare for future dalliances.

First, she explored VoxTube - Hell’s video-sharing platform, sadly not concurrent with the trends and uploads of the living world - to search for old-fashioned ditties. They were mostly jazz and swing from the 1930s onward. Listening to such tunes put her in a nice frame of mind, since he enjoyed them so much.

Second, she discreetly did things throughout the day that engaged her senses, and made her present in her own body. She altered the pitch and depth of her breathing. (Slow and deep. Short little gasps. A slight hum.) Her fingertips rested often on her lips. Her ankles rubbed together as she took in a woodworking session. It was only for herself, though as she did all this, Leslie wondered if Alastor or his shadow could be watching. Oh God, maybe he’d seen her freak out on her bed before she entered his office. That would be embarrassing. 

There was also a third thing. Leslie went to the third floor to call on Angel Dust, whom she’d only texted since her dramatic exit from the talent show. From outside his room, she heard his television playing. She knocked, and he answered in the peach-colored robe he’d worn when the hotel blew up, squinting at her like he had a migraine. 

“Hey Les,” he said, “come to gloat?”

“What? No, you know I-”

“I’m fuckin’ with ya, don’t worry about it! The other day worked out good for me. Got a couple solicitations, y’know?”

“Oh. That’s great then.”

“You comin’ in? Whateva it is, make it quick. Tryna relax.”

Right. Back to the reason she was here. “Er, do you have any... like Vaseline, or...?”

Angel smirked over the sound of faint television and a pig squealing noise. “Boy, do I. Come in.”

“No, that’s alright-”

“Ya might as well. I’m gonna try an’ find ya one that ain’t opened. Come say hello to Fat Nuggets.”

“What?”

“My baby boy. Go say hi.”

Leslie sashayed over to the closet, where a pet bed was concealed. In it was a wide-eyed Vietnamese pot-bellied pig. A pig! She’d expected a dog.

“Oh my God!” she exclaimed. “I thought that squeaking was from the TV. Hello, cutie! Can I pet him?”

Angel searched the drawers of his bedside table. “Sure,” he said. “He likes when ya scratch behind his ears. So, that was quite a performance ya gave.”

She deflected. “Not as good as yours! That dance was amazing! Where’d you learn how to do that?”

“One of my friends who lived to see the 80s, she taught me. At first she wanted me to do these stereotypical ‘big strong boy’ kinda moves? I said to her, show me how  _ you _ do it personally. Please and thanks,” Angel said. He spoke with difficulty, like he had feathers in his mouth. “Ya should try it sometime. Real accessible for beginners. Ya don’t dive right into the human flag or nothin’.”

“That’s reassuring,” Leslie said as Nuggets pushed his wet snout into her hand. “He’s so adorable. I’m going to steal him. Ahh! He squeaked!”

But Angel was preoccupied. He staggered on his heels, muttering, “Ahhh, shit. Too much,” and flopped onto the bed. He half-sat, half-lay there, almost dislocated from his body. Leslie stalked over.

“Angel? You OK?” she asked, taking a seat. “Angel, what did you take?”

“What? What?” Now his eyebrows slanted in fear. “Fat Nuggets, you’re talking!” he groaned.

“What? It’s me. It’s Leslie.”

“No, no, Daddy didn’t mean it, Fat Nuggets! I swear!”

She got up, trying to scoop Angel’s pig into her arms. “I’m not Fat Nuggets, Angel! This is Fat-- come here! It’s OK, baby, come here.” But the pig didn’t trust her yet and kept running away, squealing. 

Angel peered at her through his hands. “No,” he said, “why’re ya so tall?!”

Part of Leslie wanted to leave and merely lock him in for his own safety. Angel must have done this so many times; what did he need a tripsitter for? This was not her job, not any more. But he looked so frightened, she couldn’t just go. Cornering the pig, she managed to hoist him up - he wiggled like hell, though - and brought him to Angel Dust.

“This is Fat Nuggets,” she said. “Feel his ears there.”

“Horns?”

“He’s your little pet,” Leslie insisted gently, “remember? So cute! Everything’s OK.”

“Not OK, I’m tripping right now. Fuck!” Angel scooched away. “I must be tripping right now. Where’s…?” In another second, the paranoia in Angel came to a dynamic head. He flipped over to the headboard and punched the mattress, then tried to strangle the comforter. Leslie had to drop the pig as it struggled in her arms. Watching Angel attack the furniture was unsettling. He could hurt himself.

So, she did what she had to. Switched off the main light. Asked him what was wrong, what he was seeing. Didn’t argue. Didn’t try to restrain him. Finally, when his self-awareness prevailed, she did as he suggested and put a video cassette into the television on a corner nightstand. The nearest tape was a standup routine from a drag queen Leslie didn’t recognize. They sat together in the darkness, as Leslie traced her fingers reassuringly along Angel’s inner arm. 

“I remember this from my day,” he said. 

“Remember what?”

“The Pansy Craze, it was called. Prohibition times, they weren’t all bad for some of the queers, the female impersonators, y’know? Arrests were lower, anyway. My family ran a lotta the speakeasies back then, so growin’ up, I saw it all. I fuckin’ loved it. All those effeminate entertainers who could cut a heckler to pieces with just words, or…” He laughed. “I remember readin’ about Malin punchin’ out a guy who gave him shit. That was the best. Y’know, people like us are some of the toughest sons-a-bitches out there. We freakin’ have to be.”

“Now you’re making some sense,” she said, hugging her fluffy friend.

He hugged her back. “Sorry,” he said, “that was a bad one.”

“Sometimes I forget how old you are,” Leslie said, “or how long you’ve been around, I mean.”

“Yeah! Ha. You are just a little girl, aren’t ya?”

Leslie smiled as she let him go.  _ We’ll see,  _ she thought, _ we shall see. _


	18. Reaping Benefits

“Today’s lesson,” said Charlie, “or parable, if you will, is about returning shopping carts at the store.”

Leslie heard sophisticated groans from the other demons. Today they sat in rows, facing the blackboard where Charlie stood, wearing a dress shirt and trousers, with a smiley-face badge pinned to her suspenders. Leslie herself was front and center, hands resting on her notebook: nothing to write yet. 

This was her first real session since the talent show, and some of her peers had seen the dance with Shadow Man. A few looks and noises came her way. Though not openly salacious, for the most part, the fellow guests seemed to take pleasure in thinking she’d sunk to their level with sexy dancing. _One of us. One of us._

Leslie tried to ignore them.

“This cart thing better be good,” Charcoal threatened Charlie.

“Yes! Now. Everyone knows,” Charlie continued, “that when you take a shopping cart, there’s an expectation to put it back nicely where you found it. I really think it’s a polarizing action, because nobody forces you to return the cart, and there’s no reward for doing so. You may not even see the next user’s grateful smile! It’s doing a good thing for its own sake… right? This decision about the cart return separates the truly good from the truly… not as good!”

Impatient grumbles. 

“What’s your point?”

“I thought we’d talk about _why_ people abandon their carts near the store entrance, or in a parking space, instead of the designated areas. Why would someone do the wrong thing?”

Leslie raised a hand. “Laziness?”

“That’s one idea!”

Angel Dust shrugged one set of shoulders and borrowed Leslie’s book to doodle with. “It ain’t that cut an’ dry,” he said. “Some of us got betta things to do than return a cart.”

“Yeah. Places to be, people to do.”

“Plus, they employ people to collect carts. Let ‘em do their job.”

Charlie had a patient smile on her face, so far undisturbed, but Leslie expected it to crack sooner or later. Once order prevailed, Charlie turned to write a few things on the board. 

“Do you think,” she suggested, “if you saw someone abandon a cart, or you saw carts all over the parking lot… you’d be more likely to leave yours?”

“Do you think if I fucked off, these other bastards would be right behind me?” Charcoal quipped, and his friends agreed. 

Leslie sighed.

“What are _you_ huffing about?” said Charcoal, picking up on her exasperation.

“Nothing,” Leslie said. She kept her back to him.

“Nah, don’t sigh like that and tell me it’s nothing. What, you’re _enjoying_ this shopping cart allegory?” 

“I just think you’re missing the point, is all.”

“We don’t gotta be spoon-fed, OK, Shadow Slut?”

Charcoal’s creative insult garnered a few laughs. Leslie’s jaw clenched, but she didn’t look round. The best response was no response. Unfortunately, Charlie decided to make it a teaching moment. 

“Now, why would you say a thing like that? Peer pressure? You figure your friends will think you’re a big man if you attack someone for, um… expressing her agency as a woman?”

“Charlie, no,” said Leslie. 

“You _know_ it’s wrong to do that, and it costs nothing to keep such thoughts to yourselves. What Leslie did was very brave-”

“Charlie, please?” 

Charcoal spoke again. “Woah, double standard! I’m sorry, Les being a whore onstage is fine with you, but _I’m_ the evil one if I leave a cart?”

“We don’t believe in evil here! You can be self-serving, inconsiderate-”

“Whorish?”

“-but not evil! The point is to treat others how you want to be treated… whether that’s putting a cart where it belongs, or treating someone with respect.” Charlie’s nerves came through in her voice, but she pressed on regardless. “Yes, it’s hard to be altruistic in Hell, but sometimes the best way to change other people’s behavior is to lead by example! Return your cart, and everyone else might do the same!”

Then Angel looked up from his doodle (a moth version of Vaggie burning herself on a lightbulb) to confirm the current topic of discussion. “Are we talkin’ about that golden rule shit?” he asked. “Do unto others, yadda yadda?”

“Yes we are.”

“Well, in my experience, people - the non-idiots - only do stuff for explicit mutual benefit. Y’know, the tit-for-tat we brought up ages ago? Kinda like the agreement with Al.”

Leslie jumped in her seat. “What?”

“Uh… him helpin’ run the place,” Angel said. He jerked his thumb at Charlie. “Those two have an agreement goin’ on, remember? Minus handshake, but still.”

Nothing to do with the talent show _or_ the contract, Leslie realized. Of course not! What a terrifying two seconds.

“Yeeeeah,” Charlie responded, her fingers steepled. “Well… let’s just say altruism isn’t within Alastor’s capabilities yet! That brings me to the next point. There’s a stage between self- _ish_ and self- _less_ action.” Charlie added more writing to the board. “Some places in the world rent out the carts with a coin slot. You pay to release one cart from the rest, and to get your coin back, you _must_ go to the designated areas.”

“Yeah,” said Kain from the back row, “I’ve seen that.”

“Right! So, morally speaking, there’s an incentive to be good. There’s an _agreement…_ so it’s not doing good for its own sake. Does the incentive matter, though?” Charlie posed. “Maybe doing a good deed is what counts, more than your motivation for doing it. Maybe the end justifies the means.”

“Ohhh. Like giving to charity ‘cause of guilt from the church?”

Leslie saw a twinge of concern in Charlie’s eyes. “Uhhh… similar to that, yes.”

“So basically,” Kain said, “you’re saying: listen to one kind of peer pressure over another.”

Leslie sighed, under her breath this time. Maybe Kain had a point, but he was simply trying to derail the session with asshole logic. When she turned to look at him, he waggled his tongue at her, and disgusted, she returned to facing the board. _Pseudointellectual prick._

“Redemption is _not_ the same as giving in to peer pressure from God!” Charlie said. 

“That’s what it sounds like.”

Angel Dust grinned as he completed his doodle with fine details and cross-hatching. It was pretty good, Leslie had to admit. 

“So here comes the argument _against_ incentivizing good deeds...” Charlie continued. “It comes with an expectation of reward, and people get angry or disappointed when they don’t get one. But… do something for its own sake, and you’ll rarely be disappointed that way. Let’s bring it back to the carts.”

“Let’s not,” Crymini begged.

“Say you take the cart back just because. Does anything bad happen? No! You make a few people’s lives easier. You also make the Man Upstairs smile down on you, which is necessary to get into Heaven! It’s a bonus for living a virtuous life!”

Angel Dust handed the notebook and pen back to Leslie as he said, “So, we do good things to get into Heaven, but we shouldn’t expect a reward? That makes a buncha sense.”

“It’s how you raise kids, isn’t it?” Leslie uttered in a low voice.

“Right!” Charlie happily bared her fangs. “Children start off getting an allowance for doing chores, but that has to stop eventually.” 

Kain scoffed and said, “Some kind of fecking deadbeat dad God is. If you can get him down here to explain himself, then I’ll clean my damn room.”

And just as quickly, Charlie’s smile faded. From the front, Leslie frowned softly at her, to communicate sympathy without the others seeing. Of course it wasn’t Charlie’s fault she struggled with these questions. The whole system was imperfect. Her best form of guidance, assuming the Magne family didn’t talk with heavenly bodies, was a book written two millennia ago, and even that was much contested. 

God the deadbeat dad: all these years and not a peep. 

Charlie noticed Leslie’s frown and the corners of her mouth twitched in recognition. She addressed the whole room.

“Alright,” Charlie admitted, “Heaven is a really exclusive spot, we all know that. But, I believe in the power of being better, and I believe in forgiveness. What we’ve got to do - ultimately - is be good for no reason. Make it a habit, no matter how silly it sounds. If you don’t expect a reward, maybe you’ll get one!” She etched a shopping cart on the blackboard and, using her chalk, punctuated it with a single stab. “Class dismissed.”

o - o - o - o - o

Dressed for work later that evening, Leslie came downstairs, then froze in the hallway. Here, after a spell of disappearance, was Alastor, gazing hard at a portrait of the Magnes and the Von Eldritches. Music came from him, from his very self. She could easily imagine a radio where his heart should be, broadcasting this jazzy clarinet solo from its nest between the lungs. Still regarding the painting, Alastor burst into song with unreserved levels of volume and cheer.

“What good is sitting alone in your room? Come hear the music play… Life is a cabaret, old chum, come to the cabaret…!”

Leslie felt several emotions bubble and stir inside her, like a cauldron of witches’ brew. How dare he have a singing voice, with charisma and vibrato. _Of course! A natural entertainer! Why_ wouldn’t _he be good at yet another thing that lights my fire?_ Uncertain which musical the song was from, she decided to ask, which gave her an excuse to walk over. Her hands clasped behind her. 

“Put down the knitting, the book and the broom,” sang Alastor, waving his fingers, “It’s time for a holiday…”

She was hoping for the signal. Several nights ago, when Alastor and Leslie made the contract, he established a soft rule for scheduling meet-ups. She would know to come to his office on any day he winked at her twice in succession. 

“Life is a cabaret, old chum, come to the cabaret…!” He then stepped back, having magicked himself into the portrait, raising bunny-ear fingers behind Lillith’s head. Finally he noticed Leslie.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hello.”

Leslie smiled expectantly, waiting for the double-wink; instead, Alastor patted her head and waltzed along the hall, accompanied by his music. She saw him poke a nearby demon in the belly to irritate him. 

She lingered in confusion. He was avoiding her now… what a strange development. Her first instinct was to feel hurt; then she wondered if, perhaps, this was a form of negging to keep her surprised. Then Leslie remembered how she, in her first few weeks at the hotel, had avoided Alastor due to his reputation. Maybe instead, this was a taste of her own medicine, now that she was the interested party.

_It begins._

o - o - o - o - o

Next day, Leslie was in the studio, sitting against the stacks of deconstructed cardboard boxes. She was punching the notes from her last session into an app on her phone, for the sake of convenience. Then the incoming call tone gave her a shock. A weird number, not in her contacts. 

She let it ring out. Half a minute later, it rang again. She sighed, clicking the green button, just in case it was a friend using a payphone.

“Hello?”

“Is this Leslie?” said a man with a uniquely stringy voice. He sounded almost cartoonish. 

“Uh, yes. Why?”

“That Vaggie person told us you taught dancing. She gave me your number.”

Leslie grinned after a moment. How nice of Vaggie. Then a thought occurred: her self-made flyers would need to be rewritten. At the time of their making, Leslie’s phone and number were stolen, presumed dead. 

“Sure! Yes. Dance lessons all the way. Can I get your name real quick?”

“It’s Moxxie and Millie.”

“Oh, two of you. Great.” Leslie navigated to her home screen, then back to the notes app. “So, a lot of what I teach is performative… If you’re looking for like an exercise class instead, we could skew it that way...”

“Hang on,” the male voice said, then further from the receiver, he bellowed, “HONEY?” After a little plastic jostling, a woman spoke. 

“Hi,” she said, with a Southern twang this time. “You don’t know us personally, but my husband and I helped adjudicate the talent show, and I just loved your duet!”

“Ohh,” Leslie said, getting up, for she liked to pace in circles for long phone calls. “I remember! Yeah, I saw you guys holding hands; it was nice to see. Cute couple.”

“Thaaaanks! Y’hear that, Moxx? She thinks we’re cute together! Anyway, sweetie, we’d prefer dancing as a couple. Something fun, like what you and your shadow friend did!”

The boxes slid and fell onto the floor with a smack, which accentuated Leslie’s gut reaction nicely. What about the Shadow Dance was so intriguing, exactly? The moves themselves, or the passion? That frisson of foreplay before a live audience?

“Sweetie pie? You there?”

Leslie stammered a little, saying, “Er, yes, yep, m-hm. That’s absolutely fine. We’ll be cutting that style of jig in no time. Oh, but maybe not the backflip!” she added.

“That’s OK! It’s just nice to try new things at all.”

Leslie booked a session with the two imps and hung up with them on pleasant terms. Her positive mood lasted the remainder of her day. Teaching again! Somehow (and it was so strange, Leslie couldn't help thinking about it), that compromised dance with a silhouette worked out inexorably in her favor.


	19. The Very Thought Of You

On a Friday morning, Leslie folded clothes in the laundry room, and looked up to see Alastor lurking in the doorway. “Jesus,” she said, clutching her heart. 

“Not quite.”

She laughed. “Hi.”

“Hello,” Alastor said. Then he gave the signal - two winks - and immediately her belly did excited tumble turns. “Is Leslie working tonight?”

“Uh, yes. Back by-” she coughed, “excuse me… I’ll be back at 1am, if we close out on time.”

He nodded. “So, half an hour after?”

“Sure.”

Leslie waited until he’d walked out of sight, then collapsed into the pile of clothes, inhaled the scent of lavender detergent, and giggled like a fucking schoolgirl.

o - o - o - o - o

Leslie claimed the empty second-floor restroom after work, strip-washing and paying fastidious attention to her mouth, brushing more than she did for most dental appointments. Upon entering her room, she changed out of her work clothes into a pretty, yet modest dress. It was new - new to her, anyway, second-hand - but she’d worn it in public yesterday. Nobody could accuse her of trying  _ too _ hard to look good for him. 

The dress concealed the same racy, too-small nightgown she’d been encouraged to wear onstage. Of course, Alastor wouldn’t be seeing it tonight, but she wore it anyway. It was her own little secret, and it made her feel bolder, more in control of her faculties. If only it didn’t dig into her shoulders. 

_ Play it cool,  _ she told herself. _ This isn’t your first rodeo. Take it easy.  _ But it was never going to be that simple, was it? She’s been so distracted at Hades, turning over possible scenarios, and during the day it was hard to be optimistic. Oh yes, alone at night with her thoughts, she could make Alastor do whatever she wanted, but this was real life now. The tables were about to turn. He was  _ actual, _ corporeal, and even several decades of keeping people away - being out-of-practice - could not make him less intimidating... or intriguing. She was sure he'd have some trickery up his sleeve, sufficient to make her completely helpless.

She’d never be ready for this, not really.

Leslie rapped on the wood of her door in the agreed rhythm  _ (shave-and-a-hair-cut) _ , and from the other side, heard him knocking on his desk  _ (two-bits) _ . Opening the door, she emerged not into the hallway, but into his office. It was curious to think their rooms were linked up, having a rendezvous of their own. It must have been powerful magic: perhaps the same stuff he used to teleport, or to conjure things into view from miles away. Alastor was sitting at the desk as she entered, his head down, going over some paperwork by lamplight. As Leslie approached, hands fidgeting, he continued to focus on the papers. 

“Ahem.”

“One moment, darling. You’re a little early.”

Leslie glanced at the grandfather clock. It was true; she was. So much for playing it cool.

“Go sit on the couch there. Make yourself comfortable.”

_ Ah well, _ Leslie thought,  _ ‘sofa, so good’ _ . 

There were two couches in Alastor’s office. The one that was nearer faced the door, and was flanked by side tables, one of which had a record player on it. Not the truly old fashioned kind, with a horn loudspeaker, but it was some shade of vintage tech. As directed, she took a seat and stared ahead. Long, deep breaths, as quietly as she could. Calm. Easy. Relaxed. Then came the sound of Alastor putting his pen down, and her pulse jumped anyway. 

He strolled over, very much at his own pace. Leslie knew he was drawing it out on purpose. As he sat, the height difference between them was a little better, the top of her head level with his chin.

“Now then,” he said, then paused, looking her up and down. The sudden attention was stressful; she let out the breath she’d been holding through pursed lips. He laughed. “Now then,” he repeated, “how are we feeling?”

“Nervous.”

“Evidently.” He stretched out his arm with a flourish, and a glass of liquor appeared in that hand. “Maybe this will help.”

“Don’t you want me nervous?”

“I do… but you might run away if you don’t settle those nerves a little. Drink!”

“You first,” she said, remembering his advice not to trust anyone. 

Alastor gave her a quick  _ what-do-you-take-me-for? _ glance, but obliged, taking a stiff gulp from the glass before offering it to her. She turned it around in her hands, drinking from the spot that held his lip print. In her mind, it was a precursor to the kiss she knew was coming - again, part of this silly superstition. If Alastor noticed, he didn’t remark on it. 

“It’s brandy?” she asked.

“Cognac, yes.”

“What’s the difference?” 

“Cognac is a higher quality, and comes from a specific area of France. But I don’t expect most people to tell them apart.” 

Leslie put the glass down. Already, she felt a warming sensation in her throat, and she tasted the sweetness and spice. It was quite the turn-on to know how Alastor’s mouth would taste. The distance between them was maybe ten inches. Any moment, they would close the gap. It would finally happen… the longed-for moment.

Alastor swiveled in place and began fussing with the record player. While he was occupied, Leslie straightened out her dress, making sure the lingerie was concealed. Then, he turned back, quickly, with purpose. Seven inches between them. 

He raised his hand, placing two fingers against her throat. Music played, accentuated by the scratchiness of vinyl; it was some 1930s pop standard by Al Bowlly (she couldn’t remember which).

“On reflection,” he said slowly, “this arrangement of ours is quite uniquely odd, isn’t it?”

Leslie closed her eyes and told her heart to stop thudding so damn loudly. Again, he laughed. He shuffled closer. Taking her head in both hands now, he tilted back, and her throat was exposed, and his mouth lightly grazed on it. 

Leslie froze. This was not The Kiss, not yet.  _ Damn Alastor, of course he would do this,  _ and with such maddening restraint - or so she thought, until he let out a warm, deliberate breath -  _ haaa _ \- and found the pulse in her neck, his lips against it. He knew what he was doing.

“God fucking damn it,” she said. 

“Shhh.”

Leslie was dizzy already, from a combination of nerves, alcohol, and a sudden tingling in her thighs. This whole situation felt dangerous, even stupid on her part, but God, was it sexy. This was  _ so much better  _ than snuggling with Pillow Alastor. 

His hands moved from the side of her face to the nape of her neck, then her ears. He gripped one of them and tugged. 

“Hmmmph,” she said, tensing. She placed her hands carefully on his padded shoulders, which he allowed. 

“You want me to kiss you?” Alastor smiled.

“Yes please.”

Her manners were amusing to him. “Ha ha… then say it, my dear.”

“Your ego is ridiculous.”

He let go of her head. When she snuck a look at him, he was simply sitting there; not annoyed, but not making further moves to kiss her, either. She sighed.

“Obviously, I want it.”

Leslie was barely done deciding whether or not to keep her eyes open in case the bastard tried something, when Alastor came close, bringing his mouth to hers. It was a safe little peck; nothing too fancy, but he lingered there afterwards, dragging his lips against hers, from side to side. 

Leslie held her breath. How long had it been, since she’d been kissed? Only four months, and yet it felt so alien now. Her lips parted a little, pressing against his. Maybe it was just him, maybe all demons, but the heat, the literal heat was really something.

Al Bowlly crooned sweetly in the background. 

Her hands gripped Alastor’s shoulders as they found a rhythm, the way new kissers did. He was more reticent than she wanted: close-mouthed, tracing her jaw with his thumb. Perhaps he was teasing as always. She didn’t feel like asking right now. 

As he broke away, she chased him a little, a few more pecks. He tilted his head to look at her. Leslie broke into self-conscious but happy giggles. Then she winced.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. The thing is biting my shoulder.”

“What thing?”

“My, er, underclothes.” Leslie said it with a stuffy English accent that broke her out in a grin. “Sorry.”

“You say you’re sorry for everything.”

“Hm.” The record ended, and Alastor attended to it. She supposed there was some danger of damage from the skipping needle if he didn’t. Vinyl was so silly to her. Why would you want a music-playing device that required fiddling with after every song?

“I don’t know about that kiss,” she mused. 

That got his notice; Alastor twisted his neck to her, eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing, nothing. I was trying to be cute.” She let the tiny flutter of fear creep into her voice, hoping he would appreciate that, at least. “Come kiss me again, is what I was trying to say.”

“Leslie is becoming bossy all of a sudden.”

She was hit with a pang of annoyance. “Alright, listen-”

He silenced her by leaning in again. She sighed. Her hands wrapped around his tiny waist, pulling him in as he kissed with slightly more intensity this time. His mouth stayed closed, though his shoulders did a lot of the work. Was this something he’d brought with him from the 1930s? Leslie grew impatient, and she tested the waters, drawing her tongue between his lips. _ Let me in. Please let me in. Kiss me like you mean it.  _

He leaned against her, pushing her backwards against the arm of the couch. As his nails raked the small of her back, they jut barely snagged at the lace underneath her dress. 

She pulled his hair, and finally it seemed to click with him: he picked up on the change in momentum. He opened himself to her. Yes! God, his mouth was temperate, like he’d been gargling coffee. She could still taste the bittersweet alcohol on his tongue, swirling softly with the promise of more. Then, she darted back, inviting him to explore her mouth. Instead, he caught her lower lip between his teeth and bit.

Hard.

“Ow!”

Leslie tried to move back, but there was no room; her forehead bashed against his, and he withdrew.

“Too far?”

“Too…? Yes, Al, I’m fucking bleeding!” She patted her fingertips against her sore mouth, and they came away red. Alastor’s eyes flashed when he saw this, taking hold of her fingers and placing them against his tongue.

Leslie stared. “Did you mean to do that?” she asked. 

“What do you think?”

“You’ve got to warn me before you do that, Alastor. Christ- AH!” 

Opening her mouth for the I in Christ was a bad idea. Alastor came in for a vampire’s kiss, applying suction to the affected area, as Leslie squinted at him in quasi-horror. This was the most enthusiastic he’d been so far, and she liked enthusiasm, but bloodsucking during their first kiss was too extreme for comfort. 

“I’d like to go,” she said. “Fix my lip, please.”

One final suck, but he did as she asked, smearing the damage away, then licking clean the thumb he had used.

“You’re weird,” she said, and stormed out of the room.


	20. Other Options

Several flights of stairs later, Leslie dashed into the first floor restroom, next to the bar area, ignoring the demon onlooker who asked if she had the shits. She leaned against the sink, dwelling on her own breathlessness. 

What just happened?

This was not allowed.

Leslie smacked her hands against the ceramic.  _ No, no, no.  _ No panicking. She had to keep a level head. Right now, Leslie needed to be her own best friend: the person who slapped her in the face and delivered inconvenient truths. 

Being bitten was all the reason she needed to rescind this contract. Alastor had shown his true colors with disturbing rapidity. Yes, she’d known bad men in the past, but their grosser qualities had crept up after long periods of dating, and they never hurt her in the literal sense. One ex, Ranajay, would hit walls and desks, and Karl threw a roll of toilet paper at her head, but that was it. Alastor bit her, for God’s sake. He seduced her into making an agreement, then latched onto her like a leech. What kind of person did that?

Leslie examined her lip in the mirror. No pain, no mark, nothing. She almost wished she could see the damage, so it felt less like her imagination. The only evidence was a tiny red speck on her dress, and the taste of blood and cognac still on her tongue. 

Then there was the memory of the kiss, fresh in her mind, and it made her sink to her knees, and she laughed through tears. Unbelievable. God help her, she’d never had such a rush in her life. So many weeks of doubt and suspicion as he toyed with her, looking over with a smirk and heavy-lidded eyes. What did he want? He couldn’t possibly want  _ her,  _ not in the same way. But tonight, he kissed her. Alastor kissed Leslie. It didn’t feel begrudging, either: by the contract’s terms, he could have given her much less. 

However, speaking of the contract (and the disturbance again eclipsed her joy), he certainly did what he could within the letter of the law. What had she written? Soft biting. Maybe that meant something else to Alastor, comparatively - soft could be taken as ‘anything less than the force necessary to cut steel’.

This was a nightmare. Leslie didn’t want to give up the highest high that Hell could possibly give her… but  _ why  _ did he have to make her bleed? 

Unless she did something, she’d be up all night agonizing about it.  _ Come on, bitch, _ she thought,  _ we’ve got to fix ourselves. Solution, tonight, NOW. _

Her immediate instinct was to march back upstairs and push the Radio Demon beyond  _ his _ comfort zone. Historically, this was a poor tactic for resolving fights with bad boyfriends: a mixture of hate-fucking and blind, stupid ignorance. It never fixed anything. Besides, she reasoned, Alastor would not be open to angry, passionate sex of any kind. Not yet. He would also never apologize. Men like him thought it was beneath them, or it showed weakness.

She could go to her room and spend the night with a pillow… but it would be pathetic, especially after tasting the real thing.

Then, a thought squirreled its way into her brain: she wondered, hypothetically, about finding someone else. Someone who would be generous instead of sparing, and blatant where Alastor was merely suggestive. Maybe it would help her. Maybe it would get to him. There was nothing in the agreement about mutual exclusivity, but she judged him to be the possessive type.  _ Yes, _ she thought,  _ that’d show you: there’s more to life than Al’s temptations. _

But who was there, really? 

Her first thought was Kain from the weekly powwows. At the very least, Kain was well-educated, and less brutish than others. He’d take her; he’d take anyone with a pulse. But he also seemed like the sort of guy who would tell everyone what they did, in gruesome detail. As if her reputation wasn’t tarnished enough.

Leslie wiped her face clean and left the restroom. Her eyes scanned the Front Desk, examining the clientele. They comprised barely humanoid beings, with bizarre spikes, too many eyes, an Egyptian headdress… not the most attractive. Unknowable entities.

She approached the bar, where Husk was hunkered down below the taps, pouring Guinness into his snaggle-toothed maw. He chased it with whiskey, and Leslie immediately ruled him out as a candidate too. The only benefit to sleeping with Husk in his current state was that he wouldn’t remember. 

“Hey,” she said, “you seen Angel Dust anywhere?”

Husk shook his head, as though doing so could ever neutralize the effects of a devil’s brew of hard liquor and Irish stout beer. “Maybe outside the kitchens,” he said, and collapsed.

o - o - o - o - o

She found him at the rear of the hotel, smoking a slender pink cigarette. “Hey,” she said, arms folded in an attempt to self-soothe. “How, er… how was your day?”

“Ah, you know,” he said, “can’t complain.” He looked at her. “What’s up? Ya gotta face like a peach cobbler. Fuck, what kinda day  _ you _ had?”

Funny, the way he contracted some of his ‘you’s and not others. She looked at him, that slightly irritable frown as he dragged on his cigarette, and knew that what she wanted to ask was simply impossible. It would be absurd to… what, ask if he knew anyone who might be interested, treat her nice for an evening?

He looked concerned. Leslie knew she’d have to respond.

“I’ve had a really shitty day,” she said, “and it’s not something I can talk about. I just…” She grappled for the nearest euphemism. “I want to go out and dance my ass off and fall into some stranger’s arms. Just some distraction? But people down here could hurt me. I’m scared something would happen… and-”

“Hey, hey, Les! Hey.” So much for not worrying him. Angel got up and put a hand on her shoulder. 

She didn’t look at him. She stared down one of the rats by the dumpster, her face screwed up as she fought the tears. “I hate that I’m crying. I hate it.”

“Les, it’s alright! Jesus. Look, I get it, OK? I totally get it. Didn’t wanna say nothin’, but…” Angel finished his cigarette with one impressive pull and flicked the end of it into the shadows. He walked her to the step where he’d been sitting and helped her down. “Ya know what your problem is, right?”

“What?”

“You’re fuckin’ lonely, that’s all! You’re just sexually frustrated. And I  _ get _ it, I really do. That stuff ya said about bein’ over Al, like the  _ second _ I told ya he was frigid? It was bullshit, wasn’t it? Don’t lie to me, ‘cause I know it was. An’ then he ends up swayin’ the results of the contest with that shadow, dancin’ with ya like that… like fuckin’  _ that _ ? Yeah, I know he don’t mean it, but gimme a break! I’d be tied up in knots too, ‘specially if I wasn’t gettin’ it elsewhere.” He shook his head. 

It was about as close to the truth as Leslie could admit. “You’re right,” she said, letting her head fall into her hands. “You’re completely right. Fuck.”

“Plus, ya feel like ya gotta be good, bein’ a hotel guest. But redemption, y’know, that’s takin’ its sweet old time. Punch all that into a calculator, it makes a big ol’ sad face.”

Leslie reflected bitterly on the past four months. Angel had a point. Weeks upon weeks of hard work, after what she suspected was an administrative error placing her in Hell in the first place, and no feelings of absolution, no signs of moving Upstairs. Maybe Alastor was right. Maybe the heavenly deity  _ was _ an indifferent prick.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she sniffed.

“Nobody knows what they’re doin’,” Angel replied, “ an’ ‘specially down here.” Leslie watched him fumble for a book of matches in his breast pocket, and he used one to light another cigarette - cheesecake yellow this time, with the same golden trim around the filter. “Les, can I be honest for a sec?”

“Sure, why not?”

“OK. Ya helped me with that bad trip, I wanna help you. We’re here to go clean, yeah? Not find new an’ interestin’ ways to self-destruct… and I don’t think fuckin’ a rando is gonna make ya feel better. Take it from me! I do it all the fuckin’ time,” he said. “Sure, it’s what I’m good at, and the money’s nice, but… like Charlie and Vags have bin sayin, that shit never fulfills ya in the long run.”

Leslie managed a smile. “Hey,” she said, “you’ve converted.”

“I wouldn’t go that far! But I know ya, and ya don’t strike me as the kinda broad that goes for hookups. It’s better to wait for someone who’ll treat ya nice. ‘Cos you’re right, there  _ is _ bad people down here. I’ve worked next to some real characters in my day. Like, there’s…” he trailed off. 

“What?”

Now it was Angel’s turn to sigh. “Val has some of his underlings run deals for him,” he admitted. “Double duty.”

“Alastor does what?”

“ _ Val,  _ not Al. My boss, Valentino - the overlord? He has to do a lot to keep his empire tickin’ over, deals he has to run. I’ve volunteered plenty, but he rarely lets me do shit. Tells me not to worry my pretty head about it.”

“Wait,” Leslie asked, “so you’d rather be-?”

“Rather be promoted to doin’ real business and not stuck in the studio? Sure! Be a nice change of pace.” She watched him inhale from the new cigarette, which became a long cylindrical ash in only two drags. “Of course, I can’t  _ not _ report to him,” he said, “since Charlie told everyone where I was holed up, on live TV no less.”

“Oh man.”

“Yeah. Guess she didn’t think it through. See what I mean? Even Charlie makes mistakes. Nobody knows what they’re doin’,” he said. 

One last time, Angel tugged on the second cigarette before disposing of it, and Leslie wondered if he was strung out from something else. Maybe he was finally going clean, and the smokes were his way of adjusting.

“You’re doing well,” Leslie said. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“Thanks.”

“Can’t be easy for you. I mean, no offense, but if you’re redeeming yourself - if the sex and drugs and violence is out - what’s your safest occupation?” 

“Ha! That’s the million dollar question, ain’t it. I dunno. Drag? Findin’ a husband, settlin’ down? Shit, even those things are out.”

Leslie shrugged. “Maybe not. That holy book was written a long time ago.” Her next thought made her smile. “You could settle with Husk. He could use some looking after, I'll bet.”

“Yeah. I’ve gotta lotta time for that cat. But how the hell  _ do _ ya help someone havin’ literal Vietnam flashbacks?”

Leslie sat on her hands. “The same way you help someone through a bad trip, I imagine.”

“Maybe. Guessin’ you’ve done that before, by the way.”

“Uh, yeah,” Leslie muttered, “once or twice. Hey, Angel, I’m sorry I came and dumped my problems on you. I didn’t mean-”

“Ah, don’t worry about it. Your problems ain’t even that bad. Just get yourself a good vibrator, you’ll be fine.”

She laughed. “That’s still being… well, you know, sinful or something.”

“Lesser of two evils. ‘Sides, if God didn’t want us to jerk off , he’d have made our arms shorter.”

“Angel?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad we’re friends.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, well… too much mutual dirt on each other now.”

Leslie sat with her thoughts for half a minute. It was all too much. Was she overreacting to this whole thing with Alastor? She was fine now, physically. The burst of pain from her lip was long gone; yet here she was, going out of her mind by the hotel exit with Angel and the rats. 

“Y’know,” he said, “you don’t have to leave this place to dance your ass off.”

She nodded. Good point.

“Goodnight, Angel.”

“Night.”

Leslie wandered back inside, close to the Front Desk, where Husk announced the last call and confronted a few demons as they scrambled for the bar. Finding the studio, Leslie tested the door. Unlocked. The light was off, and the air was cold. For a moment she lingered in the doorway. Shadows everywhere. Possibly an unseen presence lurking nearby, spying on her. 

She flicked the light on, but that feeling didn’t go away. Alastor once claimed to have watched her dance: was he capable of invisibility, then, or just looking on as the Shadow Man? Her skin was crawling at the thought of being watched. The only way Leslie could be comfortable was to tie a slip of fabric over her eyes as a makeshift blindfold. Lights back off, music low (so as not to disturb other guests), she tore through some angry routines, flicking, stabbing and crashing against the floor. She knew the steps so well, there was no danger of getting acquainted with the walls. 

Not once did she remove that blindfold until she was done. Even as she felt minute, barely-excusable gusts of wind; even as a cool jet of air whistled against her face, she stayed blind. Her leg snaked out to kick the phantom blower, to no avail.  _ Fuck you, _ she thought.  _ Whoever is there, even if you’re not, even if I’m imagining it because I’m tense… fuck you.  _


	21. Defining Undue Influence

“Undue Influence is a legal term referring to an imbalance of power within a business relationship, usually between two people,” Leslie read under her breath (in the vain hope that speaking aloud would make sense of the legalese). “The more powerful individual of the two is able to sway the decisions of the other, using this to persuade the less powerful individual into making decisions which may not benefit them. This power imbalance can be caused by differences in social class or education, and emotional manipulation may be used in some cases.”

Already a cloud of confusion was forming behind her eyes, and Leslie put the phone down beside her soggy cereal.

She was trying to find a way out of this contract. So far today, Alastor made himself scarce, and she used the time to find a solution to all this. Leslie expected him to make some excuse to swing by and try to justify his actions, but apparently not. Perhaps he had business to attend to elsewhere.

In terms of ending the contract, Leslie didn’t know whether or not to play it by the book, since deal-making Alastor most likely didn’t. It would be satisfying, though, to find a loophole in his hitherto watertight agreement. It was worth investigating what grounds she had for breaking it off. 

Her first idea was breach of contract, since Alastor bit Leslie harder than any reasonable person would want. The problem was, again, that Leslie never stipulated what ‘soft biting’ was to her. Alastor would argue he was using his best judgment based on her unclear wording. 

Could she force him to rewrite the contract, to clear up any confusion? According to the internet, the answer was no, unless both of them agreed to make changes.  _ Sorry, Les! Should’ve thought about that before you signed! _

Was it an illegal contract, then? Not insomuch as Leslie was forced to let him play with her. Alastor had included the ability to withdraw consent at any time, ‘excepting the final date’ for himself. Effectively, Leslie could refuse every rendezvous until the eve of the extermination; that would solve the problem, were it not for the wiggle-room he’d written in, that one other clause...  _ Either party could be persuaded.  _ Leslie sat with that for a while and considered what it might mean.

No. If she was getting out of this, it’d have to be a clean break. Undue influence. Alastor took advantage of Leslie’s crush, and worked her into a lather before giving his hand to shake.

As her phone complained of a low battery, Leslie realized this research was merely notional. She was not a lawyer, and he knew it. In fact, there  _ was _ no criminal justice system here, unless you thought of Hell as one giant prison to begin with. Nobody was around to enforce the law.

Leslie hoped she was able to reason with Alastor. 

“You know, I once had a girl who’d go sex-mad when she got a yeast infection?” said a demon seated nearby.

“No way,” said his friend.

“Yeah. Said she liked to scratch two itches at once.”

The demons broke into grossed-out laughter, and Leslie abandoned her food for good.

o - o - o - o - o

Ten minutes before work, she approached the front desk, holding her paycheck from last night. Husk noticed her coming and raised an eyebrow, then turned to the computer he kept on a countertop behind the bar. Leslie had the check in hand, ready.

“Here’s your receipt,” Husk said, proffering a slip of paper. “And don’t do it like that next time, ‘kay? Niffty throws out anything she can’t clean.”

Leslie stood there dumbly. “Sorry, what? I’m here to settle my bill.”

“You already did.”

“What? No, I didn’t.”

“You didn’t leave four week’s rent under a glass back here?” He produced another envelope, torn open and empty. “It’s got your name on it. What, were you drunk? Again, I know you hid it good, but kinda stupid.”

Leslie stared at her own name written on the paper. It was comically large, the letters twisted and deformed. Nobody had this penmanship in real life; it was a concerted effort to remain anonymous.

“This seemed legit to you?” Leslie said.

“Uh.” Husk stared again at the envelope. His orange eyes narrowed. “I mean…”

“Forget it,” she said, “disregard what was in there. Somebody’s fucking with me.”

“By payin’ yer bed and board? Weird enemies you have.”

Leslie opened her mouth to rant about Alastor and the nonsense he’d put her through so far… and yet she couldn’t say it. Something stopped her from speaking his name. What had their agreement said? They’d agreed on blanket discretion. _ Neither Leslie nor Alastor shall identify the other in terms of their dealings (to wit: the terms laid forth in this contract) nor should the parties intentionally give rise to any suspicion thereof…  _ or something like that. “Listen, I think…” Still, she couldn’t say his name. “Fuck it! Look, that wasn’t me.”

Husk gave her a blank look. “OK, so… whaddya want me to do?”

“What’s going on?” said Charlie, coming up to the bar. Leslie explained, making Charlie’s usually cheerful face cloud over. She examined the empty envelope and its serial-killer writing. “Well, that’s… strange. What happened to the contents?”

“I put it through already,” Husk said, and backhanded the computer. Charlie told him off for mishandling hotel property. 

Leslie’s phone alarm rang. “I’ve got to go to work,” she sighed, tossing her last paycheck on the bar, “but I’m really not comfortable with… whatever this is. Aren’t there security cameras around? You could find out who did this and make them take it back. I don’t like the idea of owing someone a favor.”

Charlie still looked confused, but nodded. “Sure. We could do that.”

Leaving the staff behind, Leslie walked outside, forcing herself to take deep breaths. She knew who was behind this, but didn’t understand why. Her best guess? He was trying - again - to persuade her against moving out. What was the point of having an agreement with a lesser demon like Leslie, if she couldn’t dance attendance on him? 

She’d find him and argue with him later. This did not constitute an apology. 

o - o - o - o - o

“He said what?” Ginerva exclaimed. She and Leslie huddled in the walk-in fridge at Hades: Leslie was taking an official break, Ginerva not so much.

“I guess one itch would be the infectious kind,” Leslie mused, “and the other… well.”

“That’s disgusting.” 

“I hate Hell so much.”

Ginerva matched her humorless grin and took an oat bar from a shelf right beside them. “Me too, sis. You want one?”

“No thanks.”

Leslie began to daydream as Ginerva sank her beak into the stolen snack. The daydream devolved into a rerun of last night’s kiss. Good god, that was only yesterday? She made herself snap out of it, biting her lower lip as hard as she could stand.  _ Remember that feeling. _

“So it sounds like the hotel is the same as everywhere else,” said Ginerva - somewhere between a statement and a question. 

“Well, I’ve been  _ in _ the hotel for way longer than I haven’t,” Leslie admitted, “but it could be worse. There’s a curfew, there’s staff to help with stuff… and you know, the classes give you…”

“Something to do?”

“Hope. I know that sounds corny, but I feel like there’s a chance of getting out of this trashfire.” Leslie picked at a loose thread from one of her gloves. “It’s my soul. I like working on it.”

Ginerva was quiet for a moment as she finished her snack. “How much is it?” she asked.

“Er… to stay at the hotel? Two-thirty a week. Charlie told me once, her father hates charity, so she charges just enough to weed out timewasters.” Actually, this was a lie. Charlie hadn’t told Leslie this information; she actually sang it, along with a verse about Lucifer wishing she’d stay young forever. (“When I was a little girl, my daddy said to me, You’re such a lovely princess, it’s a shame you’ll be a queen…!”) It was quite a surprise. Leslie had heard about her tendency to do this, as though she were living in a goddamn musical, but barely believed it until that moment.

“Well, maybe I’ll move in,” Ginerva said, bringing her back to reality. “If  _ you _ can afford it, so can I.”

“Really? You’re serious?” 

“Can’t hurt to try. You’re right. Hell sucks, and I want out.”

“That’s great! Come back with me afterwards, I’ll check you in.”

“Wait, woah, not today! I’ve gotta pack and shit.”

Leslie caught herself. Of course. Not everyone could pack their whole lives into a single, easily stolen-bag. “Sorry,” she said, “I got excited. It’d just be nice to have another friend in the place.”

The fridge door was yanked open by a cantankerous Mr. Rapier, his mustache bristling. “There you fucking are,” he barked. “Ginny! Get your feathery ass in the kitchen.”

“Yeah yeah,” Ginerva said, picking up her dishtowel and storming past him.

“Lesbo, get your  _ furry _ ass back out there. Breaktime’s over.”

Slapping on a smile, Leslie scooted out of the walk-in; she felt the hot blast of air from the kitchen. Since it was close to 9pm on a Saturday, everybody was busy and the griddle tops were working overtime. It behooved her to stay on Rapier’s good side, she reminded herself. The mysterious rent money didn’t count. It was just her and her paycheck, at least until the side hustle picked up steam. 

o - o - o - o - o

Leslie got back late, exhausted, but hopeful that the situation had been handled. Though she couldn’t find Charlie, Husk was serving behind the bar as usual. She waited her turn, behind a wall of inebriated demons. 

“What can I get you?” he finally said.

“Nothing,” said Leslie. “You guys find out who the culprit was?”

“Nah.”

“What do you mean, nah?”

“I mean ‘Boss Lady’ checked the tapes, but she didn’t see nothing suspicious. I dunno, wasn’t there.”

“But that’s… not possible. Nobody showed up between last night and this afternoon?”

“Who cares? You’re off the hook as far as she’s concerned.” He was in the middle of saying something else, but Leslie left him alone. Whatever. Let him see to the customers. There was nothing else for it. Time to take this up with the Invisible Man. She marched upstairs, past her floor, past Angel’s floor, and found Alastor’s office at one end of the fourth floor, opposite the ruined laboratory. Leslie took the knob in both hands, pulled towards her and found… a broom closet.

“Huh?” This wasn’t right, she thought, dithering on the spot. She knew she was in the right place. Remembering the portaling capabilities of this door, she closed it again and rapped on the wood surface:  _ shave-and-a-haircut.  _

A long pause. Maybe he wasn’t in. She knocked again, and heard the  _ two-bits _ knock from within. Now when she tried the door, it did lead to his office. Quite a neat security system, she had to admit. 

Alastor saw her from the couch and clapped his book shut. “Ah, hello!”

“We need to talk,” she said, but Alastor teleported to her and hunched down, confidently smooching her full on the mouth. Leslie temporarily lost the will to protest - he seemed pleased to see her - but then she pulled away. “No, we still need to talk.”

Alastor straightened. “If it’s about your rent, I don’t want to hear any complaints. You work too many hours at that degrading job of yours. I did you a kindness.”

“Hey, my job may be degrading, but it’s mine.”

“Yes, how marvelous to be independent and to earn an honest living,” he chuckled sarcastically. “Don’t defend your waitressing, please. I’ve met your boss; he’s an oaf.”

“At least he doesn’t bite me until I bleed!”

Alastor sighed impatiently and turned around, walking back to the couch. She followed him. The book he’d been reading had some kind of voodoo symbol on its cover.

“Look,” he said, “that, yesterday, was my first kiss in a long while. Perhaps I got over-excited. But I’m a perfectly reasonable man, and if that was too much for you, I can adapt.”

Leslie was a little unsettled by his cooperation. She sat. “What about editing the agreement? Just to... redefine a few things.”

“But you had a chance to define your terms when we were drawing up the agreement,” he argued. “I don’t think you were strong-armed into anything. It was your idea in the first place!”

“Maybe not strong-armed,” Leslie said, recalling the article about undue influence, “but you can be pretty charming when you want to be.”

“Why, thank you!”

“Not a compliment.”

“My point is,” he said, crossing his legs, “if we adapt the thing after every misstep, its integrity is bound to collapse. We wrote it together. We must put our faith in it, not tear it down!”

“I just…” Leslie grappled for the words. 

“Leslie, you’ll simply have to forgive me,” he said. “It’s the divine thing to do. It’s the  _ only _ thing to do if we want to continue as we are, and I very badly want to.” He touched her ear. “This deal of ours,” he said, “is important to me. You need to be a part of it. We’re onto a good thing, something that is worth your patience.”

“How’s it possible for you to move too fast  _ and _ too slow at the same time?” Leslie grumbled, but her irritation was turning inward. She’d done enough arguing for a lifetime and didn’t want any more of it. “Is this an apology?”

“It’s as close as you’re going to get, my dear.” 

She sighed and nodded. “Alright,” she said. “Fine. Just be careful with me from now on.”

Alastor laughed, still stroking her right ear. “Not to excuse my actions but… it isn’t as though I broke your nose. I thought you might enjoy a certain kind of play.”

“I’m not allergic to the idea,” Leslie admitted. “Just dial it back a few notches, OK? Don’t push your luck.”

“But I like pushing my luck.”

Scoundrel. “I could still leave the hotel,” she said half-heartedly.

“You’re right,” he said, “and contrary to popular belief, I cannot be everywhere at once. However, I do have an old friend with an alarming ability. My friend can track down any demon, using only a bit of their dander.”

“That’s disturbing,” Leslie said. “What’s dander?”

“Oh, you know, shed skin, or hairs, or saliva. Luckily, the biological information from demons will decompose quickly. Still, a frighteningly effective power. Hell is full of those kinds of evil souls, Leslie. Stay at the hotel, and you will be protected.”

“Alright, I get the picture,” Leslie said, and shuffled closer. “You don’t have to threaten me if you want me to stay. Less stick, more carrot.”

“Hm,” he said, tugging her long ears. “That's appropriate.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Though Alastor has a book to finish, he allowed her to remain in the room for a spell. This time, she chose their music. He was reluctant, expecting nothing more than abrasive “stubdep”, but Leslie was, after all, a choreographer. She had thousands of songs on her phone; not all of them were fast-paced. And so, scrolling through the playlist of slow jams, she found something pleasing to the ear; something not so tied to Karlton as to make her sad; something that sounded the way incense smelled. Alastor seemed to like it, and picked her up for a waltz around the carpet.

“No biting?” he clarified before kissing her.

Her eyes half-closed. “Mo miding.”


	22. Everybody In The Closet

From the topmost floor of the Happy Hotel, in Charlie’s bedroom, she saw the nightlife glow of the city and smelled its squalor, like sun-dried garbage. She loved this room. It was worth every flight of steps for the distant view of the Pentagram. After shutting the shutters, she climbed back into bed, to give Vaggie a baby-bear hug while she crocheted a scarf. 

They were planning Charlie’s birthday: a game night, hosted five days from now. She’d had so many, many birthdays, and this time, she was excited to share it with the hotel guests, to give them some pleasant diversion. _Hell loves a party,_ as her mother used to say. Yesterday, they ordered balloons (but no helium, as Vaggie insisted it was a finite resource); today they posted invitations under the guests’ doors, and Charlie checked her phone for responses.

“How many now?”

“Let’s see… Four emails. Oh, Husk is coming! That’s a surprise.”

“Probably expects gambling,” said Vaggie. “Who else?”

“Angel Dust, Leslie, that Charcoal guy…” Charlie hesitated. She knew her next sentence would unsettle Vaggie no matter what. “And, uh… Alastor, bless him, he slipped me a letter today. The stationery was _so-_ ”

“What?” Vaggie stiffened. “Tell me you didn’t invite him.”

Charlie stayed quiet, and had to stop Vaggie from falling, exasperated onto her own crochet hooks. “Careful! You’ll lose the other eye!”

“He’s going to fuck things up. I know it.”

“Well, I couldn’t _not_ invite him,” Charlie explained. “He’d find out one way or another.”

“God, it would’ve been so easy to get rid of him for an evening. Just say ‘Oh, Vox challenged you to a duel’ and-”

“It’ll be fine!”

“That’s what we said about the talent show, Char,” said Vaggie, sliding onto her back to gaze abjectly at the ceiling. “Then Alastor interfered with _that_ somehow. The pole falling down, Les looking so unhappy… I can’t prove anything, but-”

“But why would he? I’ve thought it over, and it doesn’t make sense.” 

“It doesn’t have to. He likes wreaking chaos.”

Charlie hugged her tighter. “Look, if something goes wrong with game night… you can hate me, OK?”

“I can’t do that,” Vaggie said. 

Charlie knew something was up… that one unspoken truth. Something about the Radio Demon really brought up Vaggie’s hackles. “S _he’s mine!”_ her posture said, _“She’s not for you!_ ” - but Charlie didn’t see any cause for concern. Alastor could try to break them apart until he was purple in the face. It wasn’t happening, and Charlie had said this often enough. They lay here for a moment, each worrying about the other, until Vaggie flipped over and planted a kiss on her knee. “Hey, you’re an old lady now. I can’t be fighting all your battles for you.”

“Less of the old lady,” said Charlie, smiling. “Don’t worry, we’ll _both_ keep an eye on Al. Team Chaggie all the way.” Vaggie laughed, wrinkling her nose. It was a silly ship name, but they liked it anyway. Charlie looked her in the eye and felt her heart bloom.“Love you,” she said.

“I love you too, Princess.” She crawled into Charlie’s arms, the scarf long forgotten, and lay stroking each other’s arms. There was a wonderful kind of comfort there, a feeling of being cared for that nobody else gave her. As they kissed, this feeling grew and changed, building steam. It was natural, unhurried. Nothing was said.

Vaggie broke away long enough to tumble across the bed, to her side, and the lamp went out.

o - o - o - o - o

Leslie struggled to pick out thoughtful presents. No matter the occasion, no matter how hard she tried, she never achieved that look of pure gushing joy from the receiver. Nonetheless, a trio of bath bombs was a safe bet, and they were easy to wrap.

She left her gift on the stage in the reception hall, where Charlie had the invitees gather. (‘Don’t be late!’, the invite said.) Angel Dust compared his jacket to the unperky pink and white balloons pinned to the walls.

“Oh yeah,” Leslie said. “You don’t sound super happy.”

“Ahh, I dunno. It’s Friday night,” Angel admitted. “I could be out clubbin’ right now.”

“Is Cherri here yet?”

“Nah, she ducked out.”

“Not her idea of fun?” said Alastor, and Leslie jumped. He’d appeared again without warning.

“Oh my God! You’re here? Why are you here?”

Alastor cackled. “I wouldn’t dream of missing this,” he said. “I like a good game as much as the next man!”

“Not if I’m the next man,” Angel Dust said. “Shouldn’t we be at the Front Desk? Y’know, where the card table is?”

“Seconded,” said Husk, sidling up to join them. 

The men around her shot the breeze while Leslie stood rigidly in Alastor’s shadow. After weeks of secretive encounters, she didn’t know how to behave with him in public. Last Friday, he took a dinner fork and ran the prongs over her skin, testing her pain tolerance with careful prodding; now she was meant to socialize like it hadn’t happened? Where was the acceptable middle ground between overfamiliarity and cold ignorance, and how did she perform it?

Vaggie came over in a conservative pastel frock, pinning neon badges to their clothes and counting each demon (Leslie made thirteen). Meanwhile, Charlie made the rounds in her wine-colored tuxedo to thank them all for coming.

“Alright!” she said, “Let’s kick off with a game that’s kind of active, something that lets us go and explore! Who knows how to play... Sardines?”

“I’m out!” Three demons discarded their badges and left the room, including Kain, whom Leslie hadn’t spotted until now. They were down to ten. For those who didn’t know, Vaggie explained the game: it was a variation on hide and seek, and every time someone found a player’s hiding spot, they’d clamber into that spot with them, and wait to be found.

“Sounds thrilling,” Angel harrumphed, crossing four of his arms. 

“Who wants to be the first to hide?” Charlie offered, with that puppy-dog smile of hers. Leslie sighed. It was a lame idea, in her opinion, but what the hell. It was Charlie’s birthday, not hers. 

“I’ll do it,” she said. 

“Great! Off you go then.”

“Just… anywhere in the hotel?”

“Up to the fifth floor - if you get the door open, it’s fair game! Good luck!”

Leslie left just as Vaggie commenced a two-minute countdown. Not long at all, so she hightailed it to floor five and hoped to find a suitable place when she got there. Halfway along the corridor, in an empty office room, she saw a wardrobe as wide as it was tall.

“This’ll do,” she told herself, and got in.

The inside of the wardrobe held only a few fur coats on wire hangers, along with some shoeboxes she kicked aside. The walls dampened all exterior noise, making it thin and woody. She sang quietly awhile, the silliest songs she could think of.

“Won’t you take me to… Funkytown? Won’t you take me to-?”

“Hello, Leslie.”

“AAH! Jesus Christ.” Leslie flinched, but stayed facing forward. “Don’t do that!”

“Apologies,” he half-whispered, “I didn’t mean to scare you… No, that’s a lie. I meant it.” Alastor placed two fingers against her neck, feeling for the elevated pulse, the _thud-thud-thud_ he liked so much.

“I’ve never played this before,” Leslie said, “but I’m pretty sure teleportation’s a form of cheating.”

“Certainly is!” Alastor stood straight, rattling some hangers. “And now we wait.”

“Yep,” Leslie said. Her heart still pounded, and the need to be quiet, the chance of being discovered, was giving her ideas. “What should we do to pass the time?” 

“Getting a little bold these days,” he reproved.

“I’m just flirting.” 

“No flirting allowed in Funkytown.”

“Oh, you…! Aauugh. Never mind, forget it.” Leslie prepared to sulk in silence until the next player found them, but then Alastor spoke into her ear in a wickedly dark tone.

“Turn around,” he said. 

_Ohhhhh no._ “Wait, really? Why?”

His hand moved from her pulse point to her right shoulder, as she shuffled to face him. “Because I want to.” His eyes glowed red, tingeing the walls of the wardrobe.

“But why?”

“Because I want to. Now... shush.”

Alastor bent down as she stretched to meet him, and their mouths connected. She loved his burning heat, the static that grew louder as they embraced. Even if it was hyperbole for her sake, she loved it anyway. His teeth caught her bottom lip and bit it: hard enough to make her squeak, not hard enough to draw blood. He was learning. 

Moved by the sudden intimacy, she moved her hands beneath his coat, with a view to touching bare skin - but a sudden noise ruined their fun. Someone entered the room. Leslie and Alastor quietly, carefully moved apart and straightened their attire.

“I wonder who’s behind... curtain number one!” Angel Dust’s grossly sarcastic self flung open the doors. “Found ya!”

Leslie channeled her disappointment into a congratulatory smile. “Ahh ha ha! Hi, Angel!”

He examined their hiding spot. “Nice choice. Hope we'll all fit here. A’right, I’m gettin’ in,” he warned. They made space for him as he crouched beside Alastor, too tall to be comfortable in the closet. “...So we just stand here?”

“That’s the idea.” 

“Honestly, rather be doing anything else right now.”

“Then leave,” Leslie said.

“‘Scuse me?”

“Go grab a drink or something. We won’t tell Charlie you found us.”

He sucked in air. “That is temptin’,” he said. “Ahh, but I might never come back - and you lot’d be stuck in the closet forever. Not _that_ kind of closet! ...though, Al, fuck knows with you.”

“By all means,” said Alastor dryly, “continue to speculate.”

They passed the next few moments in bored silence, until Leslie felt Alastor’s hand at the small of her back. He made small, slow motions with his claw tips; it was quite ticklish. She bit her tongue, trying not to laugh or squirm. 

Charlie and Vaggie were next. The former seemed ecstatic that her game was going well. “This is great!” she grinned, getting in. “I can’t wait for this spot to be full of people.”

“Aw, yeah, we’re havin’ a whale of a time,” Angel said with false glee. “I’m lookin’ forward to Husk gettin’ in here with his great big fuckin’ wings and maybe his fleas if we’re lucky.”

“You’re not fooling anyone,” Charlie retorted. “We all know you’d love to be in a tight spot with Husk.”

“Ah, fuck. Who told?”

Vaggie (to prevent mischief, Leslie assumed) wedged herself between her girlfriend and Alastor with a glare. If they only knew what his hand was doing... Leslie could have slapped him, she really could. It was one thing to insist on discretion, it was another to make it a challenge by fondling her spine in a crowded closet. 

She let out a noise.

“What’re ya laughing at?”

 _Shit._ “I just remembered a funny joke,” she said. “So, er, these three strangers meet in a bar, and they find out they’re all beekeepers-”

The door to the office swung open, and a surly grumble emanated from outside the closet. “Oh, here we go,” Angel said. “Hey, handsome! Get in quick, before Les has to start over.”

“Getting too close for comfort,” Alastor announced. “I’ll be outside!” Then Leslie felt him vanish, but he didn’t teleport far; the curtains visibly rustled across the room as Husk opened the closet doors.

“That’s not how the game works!” said Charlie.

“If he’s getting out, I’m getting out,” said Angel Dust.

“Angel, no! We have to be in the same-”

“Gimme a break! I’m too fukken tall for this shit!” Angel staggered to freedom like a mantis on stilts, approaching the window. “How’s it goin’, Al? Alone at last.”

“The other curtain, rulebreaker.”

“Prude.”

o - o - o - o - o

Their game finally finished with the arrival of the last seeker, who smelled of bile. ( _Thank God he wasn’t in the closet all this time,_ Leslie thought.) When Alastor emerged from the curtain, he and Leslie exchanged a look, as if to acknowledge the secretive attentions from before. 

Back downstairs, the group took a break to drink from a punch bowl which, Leslie was told, had been spiked by Husk during the sardines game, and not to tell Charlie or Vaggie. More wholesome games followed. First they had a race to see which demon could wrap their partner in bandages the fastest. A competitive Angel Dust quickly grabbed Leslie, tiny thing that she was. He whistled to himself as he mummified her legs.

“OK!” he said, “Torso! Go!” and she revolved in place to aid in the wrapping.

Across the hall, the word “Eeeeeee!” came from Niffty as Alastor made her spin in midair, like a frog caught in a blender, and Vaggie disqualified him for using his powers. A minute later, Husk and Baxter were declared the winners.

Next was a variation of Scissors Paper Rock, except they split into two groups to decide what to call out for each round. Charlie’s group (to which Leslie belonged) shouted Rock; Vaggie’s group yelled Paper and then ran to ‘catch’ the losing players. Leslie darted around her half of the hall, avoiding two demons before Alastor came bounding after her. Within three seconds he snatched her around the waist.

“Ow! Watch the claws.”

He only laughed. So she laughed, and went for more punch during the next round. This time, Alastor caught the birthday girl, tickling her, and Leslie suppressed her jealous twinge - unlike Vaggie, who warned Alastor away with her spear. 

“How about a non-physical game?” Charlie suggested, prying the two apart. “Never have I ever?” So the group refilled their drinks and sat in a circle of chairs. “Usual rules,” she declared. “Last to be eliminated wins.”

“Let’s make this interesting!” Alastor said, and stretched out his hand. “I’ll make sure none of us are able to lie!” He was met with hesitant grumbles. “Well, what’s the point of playing otherwise?”

The group shrugged and placed their hands atop his. Leslie remembered the first time he’d used this form of mojo, during their quid pro quo, so she knew it worked.

“I’ll start,” Charlie beamed. “Never have I ever… ridden a horse.” Most demons kept their fingers.

“I rode a guy who _looked_ like a horse, so… I’m countin’ it,” said Angel Dust, lowering a single digit.

Baxter’s turn. “Never have I ever fired a gun.” Almost everyone lost a finger. 

“Never have I…” Leslie grappled for a thing she hadn’t done, and caught Alastor’s gaze. “...bought anything on vinyl.”

Both he and Angel had done this. “Ha,” Angel taunted, “catching me up, Smiles!”

They continued around the circle, and Leslie consistently had the most phalanges. It meant she was a boring shit, but hey, maybe she’d win the game.

She raised her cup to her mouth as Alastor finally had his turn. “Never have I ever... taken hard drugs,” he said - and Leslie chose that moment to clumsily drop the punch straight into her lap. Most of it splashed straight up to lick her in the face before soaking her dress. Temporarily blinded, she could only hear assorted cackles, then felt Niffty spring on top of her and dab her with a cloth. 

“Niffty, stop! Jesus!”

“You OK?” Charlie asked, leaning forward.

Leslie nodded, standing, wiping her eyes. “Yeah, sorry. I tap out. See you guys. Happy birthday again.” 

She resisted the urge to double-wink at Alastor before sweeping out of the hall. If he didn’t view that as ‘against the rules’, the visual of her being drenched in fruit juice probably destroyed her chances anyway. Never mind. At least they had that moment in the closet. At least, Leslie reflected, stripping out of her sticky dress in the first floor restroom, she’d left the game before he revealed anything too personal.


	23. Weeping Willow

Leslie smacked her morning alarm in the face and tumbled out of bed, ready to jog in last night’s clothes. She fell through her bedroom door, straight into… Alastor’s office.

“Huh?” She noticed him fiddling with the record player. “Sorry,” she said, “my bad.” It was not her bad - she didn’t control the portals - but still.

“Wait a minute, dear, wait a minute.” Alastor walked towards her, and she was envious of his appearing bright and refreshed without sleeping. “No hard feelings from yesterday, I hope.” They stood in the doorway, she in her room, Alastor in his.

“What?” Leslie yawned. “No, why would there be?”

“Well, we skipped our usual meeting,” he said, and his eyes narrowed. “A shame you had to leave in the midst of a game, too. It was just getting interesting.”

“Are you kidding? It made me feel like Miss Goody-Two-Shoes,” she said, “the most boring person around. I never got arrested, never traded blows…  _ not _ a recreational drug user, since you asked...”

“Small wonder you’re Charlie’s favorite,” he responded. Alastor gestured to the record player, setting the needle over his record from a distance. A song from The Ink Spots played. “Since we're on the subject of your life…”

“Oh, here we go.”

“You didn’t happen to mislead me about being married, did you?”

“Er… no. I was.”

“Hm. You see, I still don’t know the reason you were sent to Hell. It makes me wonder if you’ve been bending the truth about your formerly-married state.”

“Why would I lie about that?”

“To hide your promiscuous past?”

“Oh, shut up. If I had a problem with promiscuity, I’d be taking classes and working on it by now.”

“Maybe to keep potential suitors at a distance, then. Claiming to still hold a candle for one’s former partner is an elegant, and common, form of rejection down here. Perhaps you used that excuse on me.”

Leslie frowned. “What? I… barely mention Karlton, let alone to repel suitors. When did I bring him up with you?”

“About a week after we met.”

“Oh right. Yeah, because you presumed I was an innocent little flower, that’s why!” It was so silly to argue like this, at the crack of dawn, over the sound of smooth 1940s jazz. Could anyone hear them? Her door was wide open. Yes, it led to his room, but for all she knew, it was an imperfect seal.

“Innocent flower… Well, now I know better,” he said with a wink.

“Listen,  _ you, _ ” she said, wide awake now. “I know you seduced me into this thing we have going on - with surprisingly little funny business, so I dunno if it even counts - but when I was alive? Actually pretty dedicated to my relationships. Karl was my real, actual husband.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Yes, but I don’t have to.”

“What kind of proof do you have?” he asked, and he stepped into her room, a queer little smile on his face. “Photographs?”

Leslie sighed, turned around and yanked her phone free of its charging cable. “Really didn’t want to do this,” she said. “Yes, photos.” She navigated to an album labelled ‘Karl&Me<3’, opened the first image, and passed the phone to Alastor. “That’s us,” she said. “You swipe left to see the next ones.”

Alastor took a seat on her bed, still unmade. He held the mobile awkwardly in both hands, clearly unaccustomed to such devices; but he gazed at the picture and tilted his head. “This was you?”

“Yep,” she said, looking away. Even months after her death, she avoided old photos. The subjects had lost their relevance: the loved ones separated from her by time, space and coexisting realities; and the twenty-six-year-old body she used to occupy, reduced to worm food. Since around Day Five in Hell, she was tempted to delete the past-life selfies, and never could - too painful to look at or discard. 

Alastor took a long time flipping through her memories. He stopped when he reached the photo-series of Karl and Leslie standing outdoors: him in a suit, her in a dress.

“There you have it,” she said. “ _ Mazel tov,  _ am I right?”

“Why are you standing under a willow tree?”

“Long story,” she said. “We were stressed trying to plan stuff - his family was kinda absent for various reasons, I thought  _ he _ was getting cold feet… Then he drove me and his brother out to this public park one evening, pulled our clothes out of the trunk and said ‘Hey, surprise, we’re doing it now’.” She sat beside him and flicked the side of her phone. “I got that dress for a niece's christening. Didn’t think I’d get married in it.”

“So, besides his brother - the officiant, I presume - you had zero attendees, and didn’t even go to the church?” Alastor grinned wryly. “I wonder if God would be so petty…!”

“What, damn me to hell for eloping? That  _ would _ be petty.” Leslie swiped a few pictures along, to show the trio huddled with a fourth person, all mugging to the camera. “Turns out you need a witness in our state… but I guess he counts.”

“Who was he?”

“Just some rando walking his dog. Stephen something. We kept in touch,” Leslie said, then let go of the phone. “Shit, I wonder if he knows I died.”

“Leslie, this is all very unorthodox.”

“Maybe,” she shrugged. “But I see what Karl was trying to do. It was still a good day. So, there you go. Proof.”

“Given how little you talk about him - and how fond you are of me - am I to assume the marriage was rock-solid?”

She gave him the stink-eye. “Enough questions. C’mon, I’ve got to go jogging.”

“I’ll take that as a no.” He held her phone out of reach, causing her to practically clamber over him. God damn it, she tried, but his arms were so unnaturally long compared to hers.

“Give it back, you bastard!”

“Ha ha…! Make me!”

Leslie tackled him, making them overbalance. Before she could process the fact of being atop him on her own mattress, he teleported away, and she fell a further few inches. The music in the other room stopped. 

“Lemme guess,” she said, storming into his office, “you think marriage is for fools? Or maybe just romance in general.” He was changing the record, handling the vinyl twice as delicately as he’d ever handled her, and never bothered to answer. “Good,” she continued. “If it means you’ll never love me… because I don’t see myself loving you. The thought of it makes me a bit sick, actually. Now please gimme my phone.”

Alastor gave her a funny look, but returned the mobile at last. “So, you only want me for one thing,” he teased. “How shallow of you.”

Leslie knew what he was doing. Last time, he’d framed forgiveness for biting her as the ‘divine’ thing to do. In order to be redeemable, she ought to overlook his wrong-doing. So she’d done it, taken the high-ground, and let him get away with biting. This time, according to his logic, it was better to love someone than lust after them. She supposed he had a point; Charlie certainly might have agreed with him. But was it  _ so _ much better, to love someone who was downright evil? The so-called philosophical victory was a trap.

“Can’t win, can I?” she said. “Whatever. I’ll take shallow over foolish.”

He grinned anew. “That’s my girl.”

o - o - o - o - o

Alastor spent the next few days renovating the hotel at random. By all accounts, he did it to be disruptive and keep the patrons on their toes. It was hard not to be jumpy, Leslie discovered, when the structural integrity of the building was in question. It didn’t matter the time of day, nor how a room was being used: he could be there at a moment’s notice to telekinetically throw the furniture into disarray or tear off the wallpaper. Husk once came into the lobby complaining that his sleeping quarters now contained five or so bookcases, and was told that Alastor ‘hadn’t found a place for them yet’, and to please bear with. 

Vaggie was not happy.

“I have fucking classes to teach!” she yelled, throwing a book in Alastor’s direction. “Give it a rest, dickneck!” What followed was a stream of furious Spanish and a curse on Alastor’s mother’s grave, which might have put a tiny dent in his imperishable grin; Leslie wasn’t close enough to know for sure. Anyway, it didn’t stop his antics; he flitted to the kitchen to hurl some crockery out the window.

Leslie was fairly busy herself. On top of her usual shifts, she spent much of her time devising routines for Moxxie and Millie’s classes. She saw them twice a week, still in the studio. Choreographing for two was a challenge, since she had to think it through from both sides. It was helpful to film herself moving through one person’s steps, watch it back, and reverse-configure the steps for the other person. 

During lessons, they’d start with warmups (which Moxxie always performed with gusto), and then approach the steps to music, from one of her many playlists arranged by beats per minute. Both imps had a terrific sense of rhythm.

“He’s a musician,” Millie cooed. 

“Ah, well, that explains it!”

Leslie often had to come into closed position with one of them, to demonstrate certain things. Since both her students had claws, this meant being accidentally spiked on the hands or waist. Leslie learned to grin and bear it. 

“OK,” she said, stepping between the two, “that was great, but, Moxxie, I think you had your step pattern mixed up.”

“Oh.”

“No, no, it’s tricky, don’t worry about it! Let’s go through it again.” 

As Moxx unclasped his wife’s hands, Leslie got into position next to him, and they ran through it at half-speed. It was nice to take things at their own pace, she reflected, unrushed, undisturbed - until Alastor flashed into view, holding his cane. Both Moxxie and Millie stopped what they were doing. 

“I’m teaching,” she said, “go away, please.”

“Still squaring yourself away in here,” he remarked, and cast a critical eye at his surroundings. “There’s a perfectly good stage you could be using, just a few doors down.”

Leslie took a short, shallow breath. “We’re fine here. Better for privacy.”

“If you insist.”

He rested his cane carefully against the entrance wall; then, with a snap of his fingers, he conjured a chunk of mirrored wall, clearly ripped from another building. It landed with a thud. A single fracture line splintered the glass.

“FUCK!” Leslie and her students fell in shock, and Alastor left without another word. Somewhere upstairs, the patrons loudly complained, just as they had when Baxter blew up the hotel. Leslie helped Moxxie and Millie to their feet.

“Sorry,” she said. “He’s a nuisance. You get used to it.” 

She approached the broken mirror -  _ seven years’ bad luck _ \- wondering where on earth he’d got it, and caught the reflection of Moxxie creeping the opposite way. Alastor had left his cane behind. The eye of the microphone flicked open, faintly glowing. 

“Can, er… can he see through that thing?” Millie asked.

“I don’t know,” Leslie said. “Hopefully not. I wouldn’t touch it if I were you-!”

Too late. Moxxie reached out, perhaps to claim the staff’s power for himself, and he was struck by red lightning which catapulted him across the room. 

“Moxx! Sweetie, are you OK?”

_ “Golly Gee Willickers, that must have been ten feet!”  _ the microphone said. It had its own voice, not Alastor’s (though its sadistic glee was familiar), and with it, the three heard thunderous clapping, as though a new sporting record had been set.

“I am so sorry,” Leslie said, picking Moxxie up again. 

He brushed some ash from his clothes. “Lesson learned. No touchie.”

They wrapped the lesson up, so he and Millie could rest after his unexpected and jarring experience. Leslie felt confident enough to ask them to bring some friends next time: after all, dancing with different partners now and then would make them better dancers overall. They nodded and left the room, phoning for a cab back to the Wrath Ring, whatever that was. 

Leslie walked to the mirror one last time. Funny, the way Alastor had done it: like it was purely to satisfy his aesthetic standards for the hotel, and nothing to do with her. She hoped that was the reason; otherwise she owed the Radio Demon a favor. In any case, having the mirror here would make her job easier, and for that she was grateful. 


	24. Angel Suspects

“Fuckin’ thing… C’mon, just let it happen,” Angel joked, sticking out his tongue. “Heh heh…” He knelt with difficulty before a padlocked door on the top floor, persuading it open with a metal hook, one of several. Leslie held the lock steady and tried to feel useful.

“How long you been doing this?”

“Oh, years an’ years. Prob’ly since ‘43.” They heard a satisfying click. “Aha!”

Leslie shouldered the door open, and the two climbed a short flight of stairs, onto the roof of the hotel: practically the only place Alastor wasn’t effecting decorative havoc. She gazed at his past handiwork, the words ‘Hazbin Hotel’ in giant letters, replacing the hotel’s proper name of Happy.

“Impressive, huh?”

“Holy shit,” she said, skipping close to the edge of the building. “You can see for miles! What is that? That looks like jungle.”

“Yeah, kinda dangerous. Not worth hackin’ vines for, I’ll tell ya that much.”

Leslie perched on a concrete block, marveling at the absolute scope of this hellscape as Angel joined her. Remembering their food, she reached into her pocket and passed him a spinach puff. 

“Angel, can I ask you a slightly personal question?”

He pretended to be put out by her impropriety, placing his pastry down on his knees with decorum. “I dunno,” he said, “personal? I ain’t comfortable with that,” but he couldn’t stop himself from grinning, flashing his golden fang. “Nah, go ahead, shoot.”

“You’re pretty tall,” she said, “so… when you’re with a client who’s a lot shorter than you, how does that work?”

“Any partic’lar reason you wanna know, Thumbelina?”

_ No, no reason at all. Of course not. _ “I’m just thinking, the height difference must get in the way sometimes. You don’t want to crush the smaller one, do you?”

He picked up his food again. “Usually I’m the one gettin’ ‘crushed’,” Angel said, “but there’s ways around everythin’. You can have Shorty kind of sit in your lap, or fuck ‘em sidesaddle-”

“Sidesaddle?”

“Stand on a staircase or somethin’, stick ‘em on a kitchen counter… There’s ways around everythin’, and honestly, if the mood’s right,” he winked, “ya don’t even think about it. OK, my turn to ask  _ you _ a personal question.”

“Sure?”

“Well, more a personal statement,” he said, taking a bite of pastry and speaking with his mouth full. “You and Al. Somethin’s going on.”

“What?” she said, feeling the flame alight, deep in her belly. He swallowed and started to repeat himself, thinking the problem was clarity of speech, but she shushed him. “I heard you, but… Christ, what gave you that idea?”

“Look, I see things,” Angel said, “I see the way you guys look at each other. That’s my language. Like after the game of Sardines, few weeks ago?  _ That _ little bit of sizzle?”

Her stomach rapidly came to a boil, as it always did when someone was onto her. “I dunno what you’re talking about. He doesn’t like that stuff, you said so yourself.”

“Well, yeah, but that don’t stop him gettin’ up in other people’s business. I figured he might do some things, even just sarcastically. Maybe he’s still tryna lead ya on, y’know?”

“Look, we're… friends...ish? He helped me with a dance once, but he was a dick about it. I’m done pining; it’s out of my system.”

“You’re totally done? That’s just unconvincin’.”

“You’re projecting, Angel. You’re the one that wants to fuck him.”

“Well, true… I wouldn’t kick him outta bed,” he admitted. “So what’s really going on, Les? What’s the secret with the pair of ya’s?” That smirk reminded her of their first drink at the bar, when he’d made extensive fun of her. 

“Something tells me your own imagination trumps whatever story I could make up,” Leslie said. She was speaking within the bounds of that non-disclosure clause. No truths, nothing suspicious.

“Why don’t you just tell me? Get that secret off ya chest.”

“Nothing to tell!” she insisted. They heard a shout from behind them: a female voice calling up the stairwell, and Leslie was relieved. “That’s Ginerva. I think you two will get along.”

“Why?”

“Er… you might. Or you might not. I don’t fucking know.”

Angel Dust laughed, letting her off the hook for now, as she trotted back the way they came to fetch her friend.

o - o - o - o - o

“So, Angel thinks we’re up to something,” Leslie said, entering Alastor’s office. 

Alastor was finishing a cup of coffee. He took it black, like her, but without the sweetener. “Did you dissuade him?”

“Tried to, but I don’t think that’s the end of it.”

“Hm. We shall be more careful for now… although, his suspicion could be amusing for a spell, as long as there’s no proof! You’d never tell him, of course,” he added, eyes narrowed as he set down the empty mug.

“No, I wouldn’t,” Leslie said. “I can’t, can I?”

“Good.”

She stared at his hands. The leather gloves were a necessity, she’d learned, as Alastor couldn’t otherwise grip things or make a fist without injuring his palm. She knew first-hand how sharp those talons were. It seemed to Leslie that the pinky finger of his right hand was the deadliest one; really, that nail was slightly warped, so the very tip turned out. The extra-sharpness was an illusion. 

The nights she came to see him were a mixed blessing. He became different when they were alone, smokier, darker. Leslie most enjoyed the days he tried to make her flustered, which he was rather good at. However, he still seized every opportunity to test her other limits. She took painkillers before their meetings now, though she doubted their efficacy.

“Can you imagine how much Angel would hate our contract?” she said. “He’d get so frustrated at being edged by you for months on end.”

Alastor may not have known what edging was, but he seemed to guess. “Do I detect a hint of... frustration?” 

“Maybe.”

“Hm. Well, I have another game for us today. Come sit on the carpet here. Legs out straight, and you can lean back for now.”

Leslie did as he commanded, relaxing onto her elbows as he knelt before her, holding her legs down flat. This position was doing it for her, she couldn’t lie. “What’s this about?”

“How is your abdominal strength?” Alastor asked.

“Uh…” she said, trying to remember her last sit-up. “Pretty good.”

“If I asked you to lean at a 45 degree angle, unsupported, how long could you hold that position?”

“Maybe a minute or two.”

“Let’s call it two. When you’re done, I’ll entertain your wishes some more. Deal?”

A green light danced around his outstretched palm. She stared at him, unimpressed. These challenges weren’t a part of their agreement. They weren’t forbidden, either, but it was starting to piss her off, since they always required extra effort from her, and rarely from him.

“‘Entertain’,” she said aloud. “What does that mean, Al? I want to know if this is worth my while.”

“How about we undress each other a little?”

God, she hated him… but it sounded pretty good to her. Leslie shook his hand, and the challenge was sealed: she assumed the position. From nowhere, Alastor produced a stopwatch, holding it aloft for her to see.

“Ready when you are,” she said. 

“Two minutes. Go.”

With her back straight, Leslie lifted her elbows and crossed her arms. Already there was a little pinch of discomfort. It was bearable. So far. She attuned her ears to the grandfather clock which stood beside the door. Its heavy tick-tocking told her exactly how many seconds had passed. She counted ten. Twenty. Thirty. Thirty five. Forty.

“Don’t give up now.”

41, 42, 43… Now the burning in her belly was impossible to ignore. Leslie noticed that she was shaking, but she wouldn’t fail. She could not fail. 

49, 50, 51…

She focused her attention on Alastor’s bow-tie, mostly brown with a blot of red in the center. How did one remove a bow-tie, anyway? This could be important to know in a minute. 

“Halfway there.” He smirked again, expecting her to fail. But she wouldn’t. Leslie was about to beat her personal record, and maybe see his collarbones in the process.

She counted down from 60 this time. 58, 57, 56… Jesus Christ on a bicycle. It hurt so much. Her hands became fists, clinging onto her sleeves, though it offered no support at all. 

45 seconds. She was almost done. 

Alastor shook his head, as though he disapproved of her gritted teeth, or whatever struggle her face betrayed. She let the annoyance flow through her, giving her new strength. 37, 36, 35.  _ Fuck you Alastor, in half a minute you will be obliged to make out with me, no matter how ugly I look right now. _

29, 28, 27.

The cramping was intense. Her whole body shook. A bead of sweat ran down the side of her face.

21, 20, 19. 

Leslie let out an exasperated cry. 

“Forty seconds.”

Her eyes widened. “Bullshhhhhit! I’ve been counting!”

“I think you can do it.”

“Fuck... you!”

He laughed.

34, 33, 32...

She wasn’t going to make it. The strength was leaving her, and every muscle in her body screamed at her to STOP RIGHT NOW

“Alright, alright. As you were. Ten seconds. You can do it.”

Sweet mercy. Leslie forgot to be mad at him. Her vision was spotty, but she counted with him. 9, 8, 7, 6… His hand rested on her belly. 5, 4, 3… She’d made it.

2.

1.

Leslie collapsed so hard that her head clunked on the carpet. She didn’t care. The pain radiating in her middle was dampened by relief. She’d actually done it.

Alastor’s audience cheered. A little sarcastic, she felt, but she’d take it.

“How do you feel? Accomplished?”

She nodded, lifting a weary hand to wipe away the sweat on her forehead. His hand drifted to her stomach again, circling his index finger in a way that was ticklish. Her tired muscles contracted.

“Ow. Don’t…”

Now that the primary ache was fading, she noticed other things: the strain in her neck, for example, and the prick-marks on her arms, where she’d dug her nails in. Alastor knelt over her.

“Do you need a moment?”

Leslie’s mind returned to the reason for her two-minute trial. No way was she finished. Slowly, she dragged herself up to sitting, legs crossed, and pulled on Alastor’s lapels to bring him in for a kiss. To his credit, he was particularly ardent tonight, opening his mouth to hers. She tasted coffee. Because of his teeth, she was forced to tread carefully (the bleeding lip incident was still fresh in her mind) but the softer touch of his tongue was enough to make her want more… much more.

She took each of his hands, slipping off the gloves, and they came to rest on her waist as they kissed. No rush. No rush at all. She unfastened the buttons on his coat; meanwhile he was preoccupied, as he so often was, with the insistent thrum of her heart, listening to it, feeling it. He started nipping at her neck. _Ow. No._ _Bad pain._ So she pointedly brought his mouth back to hers, and her tongue drifted forward, outlining the sharp edges of his fangs. _Carefully, carefully…_ She was rewarded with a gentle bite of her tongue, enough to be exciting. This was a good pain.

His bow-tie was indeed a struggle, but he helped by loosening his collar. Three open shirt buttons was sufficient for her right hand to smooth over his skin. She couldn’t wait. She forgot herself; her mind became a wisp of smoke dancing through the hellfire. He was so warm, with a little hair, not much; his chest was cleaner than Karl’s by a long way, and why was she thinking of Karl right now? This was not the time. His left hand gathered her ears and tugged, making her gasp. He laughed in that soft, charming way. 

“Too easy,” he murmured. 

“Alastor.”

She leaned into him, hoping that he would topple onto his back and open up his torso for her to play with. They were already on the floor; it would be an effortless transition. Instead, he knelt firm, squeezing her just as tightly. The urgency of his hold ignited something in Leslie, a twinge of longing so great that it almost hurt. She freed up her left hand for herself, practically sitting on it, only trying to stop that rabbit’s-nose-twitching between her legs...

Alastor noticed, and let her go. 

“Wait,” she said. “Can’t we… Don’t you want to?”

“Not today, my dear.”

She took hold of his lapels again. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Really?”

“Sure.”

“Would you even… wait?”

He removed his coat, folding it and throwing it upon the desk in one fluid motion. Without the shoulder pads, he cut a leaner figure than she, and the rest of Hell, was used to. It was startling. Anyone else might have seemed vulnerable as they became physically smaller, but Alastor retained his power by withholding what Leslie wanted, and stood up before she could touch him. 

“You are the worst,” she said.

“I try.”


	25. A Pox On Us

Leslie passed another sleepless night. The last meeting was a game changer. Alastor’s play had moved past the point of suggestion, and she’d got to touch him,  _ really _ touch him. God, Leslie couldn’t stop thinking about it. He was right; they were onto a good thing.

The whole day, she was distracted, trying to relive what had gone before. She bit her knuckles. She cradled cups of coffee, relishing their heat against her palms. Around midday, she skipped to the studio, got on the floor and re-enacted the sit-up hold, feeling the burn in her stomach. This maelstrom of emotion was almost too much, and she wished something would come along to make her think like a human again. 

Two days later, she got her wish. 

Leslie was in a teaching session, led by Vaggie, and doodled in the margins of her notebook, mostly woodland creatures. Rabbits. Deer. 

“Alternatives to violence,” said Vaggie to the assembled demons. “Has anyone heard the phrase ‘kill them with kindness’?”

“Well, yeah,” said Ginerva, three seats over from Leslie. They’d been placed in the same teaching group due to similar work schedules. “It means to, er, annoy someone by being nice to them.”

“Yes, and why might it annoy them?”

Ginerva shrugged. Someone at the back coughed loudly.

“‘Cause it shows ya can’t be easily provoked,” said Angel Dust, “right? Turnin’ the other cheek. I mean, yeah, that’s annoyin’. Makes ya seem like a sanctimonious shit.”

“OK, well, we can debate the usefulness of this,” Vaggie said fairly. “I’ll concede that in Hell, trying to come off as ‘the better person’ seems fruitless, right?” The group agreed. “But it could still resolve conflicts - like, if the other person gives up in confusion, or disgust.” She turned her gaze to the back of the room, frowning. “Something the matter, Kain?”

Kain’s voice was unusually strained. “I’ve got a fucking rash or something.”

The group turned to look at him, including Leslie, and he was sitting in one of the middle rows with the sleeves of his leather jacket rolled up, scratching furiously. He looked even bluer in the face than usual, with a fine mist of perspiration on his brow. 

Vaggie strolled over to inspect. She saw the raised blisters on his arms.

“Oh shit,” she said. “That looks like hellpox.” She jumped back. “You’re contagious. Everybody, other side of the room, quickly.”

No-one had to be told twice; most got up at the word ‘contagious’.

“What the fuck is hellpox?” Kain exclaimed, and coughed again. “Is this a fucking joke?”

“No, it’s not,” said Vaggie from a safe distance. “You’re going to have that rash for a few days, and a fever if you haven’t already. You should go to your room. Uh…” She deliberated, looking at the class. “You guys too. We need to find out who’s infected before we do anything else.”

“Wait, what?” Angel Dust cried. “There’s a hotel plague going around now?”

“Fuck that, man! I’m not getting sick!”

Leslie joined most of the group in vacating the room, notebook under her arm. She hadn’t known there were diseases in Hell; and wouldn’t the demonic healing factor take care of them anyway? 

“Not so much,” Angel said when she asked. “I mean, STIs are a thing, so…”

“They are?!”

“Yeah! Part of the eternal torment package,” he said. “FYI, my boss has herpes. Don’t ask me how I know that.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.”

Vaggie convened with Charlie in the hallway, and the two did their best to corral nearby demons for further instructions. They’d email a list of symptoms to each guest; anyone who showed signs of the virus was told to notify staff.

“This thing is very catching,” Charlie explained. “We don’t want the whole hotel getting it, so it’s important to self-isolate. We can have meals brought to you, calamine, all that good stuff.” She gave the thumbs up. 

“What about Alastor?” Leslie said. “He doesn’t use email, does he?”

Vaggie gave her a look of faint disgust before telling her girlfriend, “Don’t tell him, for fuck’s sake. He’ll infect people on purpose, given the chance.”

Charlie dithered. “Would he really want to get sick just to infect people?”

Vaggie shrugged, then gave a rare laugh as they walked away. “Just imagine him with blue spots all over his face… Ha!”

“Did she say  _ blue _ spots?” Leslie said to Angel.

“Sounds like it. I mean, Kain’s that color anyway. I just assumed…” he trailed off. “Well, I’m gonna split. See ya, Les.” He turned to the stairway, realized she was coming with, and grinned awkwardly. “Heh. Oh yeah.”

Leslie locked herself in her room and called her boss to notify him of the situation; he wanted her to come in anyway, claiming she was calling in sick too often… which only included (as far as she remembered) the time she’d feigned sickness to decontaminate the reception hall. Of course. Why would Mr. Rapier be humane, even for a day? 

Well, fuck it. She felt fine for now. Together with Ginerva, she put in a solid shift at Hades, taking home some leftover kebab meat in a takeout box (taken when Rapier wasn’t looking). 

That night, she was uncomfortable. The air was warmer than usual, balmy almost. Perhaps there was a tickle in her throat, but that could have been anything. Dehydration? She _ was _ quite thirsty.

Then her thigh began to itch. She threw off the blanket, parted the fur there with one hand and shone her phone light on the affected area. Sure enough, there was a faint speck of azure. 

“Nooooo.” Leslie fell back with a sob. “Nooooooooo.”

o - o - o - o - o

She woke up coughing. The itch had spread from her legs to her arms, chest and even her ears. It was hard to see those blue spots due to the fur, but they made their presence known, and she was able to send some convincing photographs to Rapier. This time, he took her seriously. Maybe she’d already had her chance to pass the hellpox to him. Good. Served him right for making her come in. 

Fucking Kain. 

As instructed, Leslie told the hotel owners that she was sick. She wasn’t the only one. There were already a few cases, and Vaggie herself wasn’t very well. 

So began her isolation. Leslie stayed in her room, only occasionally leaving to use the bathroom, and did her best to clean any surfaces she touched. She experienced frequent coughing, hot-and-cold flashes, and intense itching; so as not to hurt herself, she placed a sock over one hand and scrubbed at her spots with that. Most of the time, she distracted herself with videos on DoomTube as she lay there, too weary to do anything else. Three times that day, she found a tray of food outside her door, and left a couple hellar bills tucked under the empty plate that evening, to thank whoever delivered it.

On the second day, Angel Dust called her. 

“Guess who’s got the plague!” he said in a crusty voice. 

“You too, huh?”

“You got it, toots. Hey, least I don’t gotta go to the studio. Be relieved if I wasn’t so **furious!** ”

Three days into Leslie’s illness, Niffty got hellpox. She’d been doing her best to sanitize common areas and assist in general, which hadn’t ended well for her. Reportedly, Husk was also under the weather, but no word yet about Alastor.

On the fourth day, Leslie noticed a strange and unsightly development; her fur was growing in blue at the roots. She called Angel to tell him, asking him to check himself. 

“Shit, you’re right!” he said. “You gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me!”

Leslie kept the call short; her fever was making her delirious. Her body ached. The blisters were raised and painful from scratching; her sock barrier hadn’t helped much. There was really no comfortable position she could lie in. 

“Not good,” she croaked to herself. “Not good.”

o - o - o - o - o

Leslie woke at dusk from a nasty dream about crawling insects and nearly screamed, seeing a shadow leaning over her. Scrambling against her pillows, she recognized it as Shadow Man - the shadow she’d danced with onstage.

“Oh,” she said. “Hello.”

He blinked his wide eyes at her. 

“I don’t know if shadows can catch hellpox,” she said, “but maybe you shouldn’t stand so close.” Her throat was sore, but getting better. She peered at him. “Can you talk? Are you even allowed?”

He shrugged and sat down, tilting his head at her. So like Alastor, yet so different. She felt his hand on her knee, over the bedcovers. Surely he wasn’t here to put the moves on her? His timing was just impeccable, she thought miserably. 

“How’s Al?” she asked.

Shadow Man gave the so-so hand gesture. Interested, Leslie sat up properly. Perhaps he was sick. Well, he’d never let her into the office in that case. Unless…

“Hey, think we can go see him?”

The shadow raised that same hand to stroke her chin, then found one of her blisters and gave it a good scratch. Oh, that wasn’t terrible. It’d hurt like a bitch later, but for now it felt terrific. 

“Thanks. But hey, we should go see Al.”

He stood, and Leslie threw off the sheets, following him to her door. Shadow Man swiped at the wood with one long finger; this was sufficient to both link their rooms and allow him access to the office.  _ Nice power to have, _ Leslie thought, as they walked through. They saw Alastor, lying with his back to them on an unfamiliar rug, before a fireplace which definitely hadn’t been there before. Its embers were dying; he must have lit it during a cold flash.

“Hey,” she said, “you OK?”

“Who let you in?” he rasped; his radio voice was experiencing some technical difficulties. 

“One of your shadows,” she said, turning back to Shadow Man - but he’d vanished while she wasn’t looking. Leslie stepped closer. “So… got the pox?”

“Hm. Saving my strength. I feel like inflicting this wretched disease on the remainder of the guests.”

_ Huh,  _ she thought,  _ Vaggie was right.  _

“You think that’s funny?”

“It would be,” he said, “if  _ I _ didn’t have the damn thing.”

“Hey, language,” she joked, and knelt beside him. “But I’m sorry you’re not well. I’ve got the thing; it sucks. My hair’s turning blue.”

This seemed to interest Alastor enough to turn and look at her. His smile continued to hang on for dear life, but his face was blighted with the blue specks, which clashed horribly with his hair. Leslie guessed the spots prevented him from shaving, as he had the beginnings of a beard, also blue, which he tried to cover with his hand.

“Oh, good lord,” she said, “look at the state of you.”

He pushed her over. Leslie fell back with a grunt, which did make him laugh. 

“I can get rid of this,” he said. “You’re stuck with yours until it grows out.” He had a point. Maybe she could find some dye when all this was over. In response, Leslie rolled him onto his side again and scratched his back through his clothes. Either he’d give her another shove, or-

“Higher.”

Leslie grinned weakly, rubbing between his shoulders as he gave a grateful sigh. The new privilege of being allowed to touch Alastor was still conditional, but this seemed to be one of those situations. It was odd to see him like this. She preferred him when he wasn’t sick; did that make her a bad person? Perhaps she was just afraid of feeling sorry for him. He didn’t really deserve it.

“This counts as a meeting,” he told her, “so you can forget telling tales about me.”

“Your secret’s safe with me, Bluebeard.”

Water fell into the hearth, extinguishing the last of the dying fire. She saw a section of wall pull slowly across, sealing this secret fireplace away again. Leslie wondered what else was hiding in this room. Trapdoors? A hammock that fell from the ceiling? Alastor began to mutter something about a lemon-garlic marinade, slipping back into a fever. 

“I’m gonna go,” she said, “unless you need me for something.”

“No thank you, dear. Goodbye,” said Alastor, and he laid where he was as Leslie saw herself out.


	26. Break The Cutie

Over the next few days, Leslie noticed a spike in hellpox cases at the Hazbin Hotel. Nobody was spared. It was almost like one of the infected had teleported to each guest’s bedroom in turn and breathed all over them in their sleep.

Many guests checked out in protest, leaving Charlie distraught, and even worse, Channel 666 heard something was rotten at the hotel. Though most reporters merely called reception for the story, Tom Trench actually knocked on the door a few times. Perhaps he thought the gas mask ensured his immunity. 

Leslie herself was doing better. The blisters had crusted over, which, according to Baxter, meant the window for contagion had passed. He’d had the pox decades ago, and was attempting to find a vaccine for it. 

“Not remotely my field,” he told her, a mad gleam in his eye, “but that never stopped me before.”

Having recovered somewhat, she volunteered to help around the hotel with laundry and room service. Rapier didn’t yet need to know she was better, especially if he himself was sick. Angel Dust was much improved, so she took half an hour to go visit him.

“Look at this!” he said, pointing to the band of blue in his fur. “I’m gonna have to get this bleached out ‘fore I’m fit to be seen. Fuck’s sake!”

“It’s not that bad,” Leslie assured him. “Kind of goes well with the pale pink.”

She planned to do something about her own hair. Alastor had suggested shaving it off, but Leslie was terrified of being even uglier without it, like a naked mole rat.

“A pity,” he said, “it would be nice to really _see_ the marks I leave on you.”

The phrase rang in her brain as she finally ventured outside to get some hair dye. She found two boxes of the darkest shade, and returned to her room to apply it. The test swatch stung what remained of her pox, though, so she gave it a few more days before trying again. 

When the time came, she stripped naked, mixed up the dye and brushed it onto her body, wherever she could reach. Her middle back was tricky, but she managed. Then she spent an awkward forty minutes standing in the centre of her room while the stuff worked its magic, and hoped the Shadow Man would not spontaneously walk in and see her like this. Then Leslie cursed, because she’d forgotten to grab a towel to wear. She wrapped herself in a bedsheet instead, checked the coast was clear and ran to the restroom to wash everything off. This time, she forced herself to keep the light on, watching as a pool of greyish water spread around her feet in the shower.

Afterwards, having wiped the fog from the mirror, she hopped on the spot to get a look at herself. It seemed the blue was concealed, and she actually looked better than before. Her darker pelt had a nice shine to it. _Yeah!_ _Fuck you, Dad, for never letting me do this as a teenager! What do you know?_

o - o - o - o - o

Leslie came downstairs that night to raid the fridge, but heard an argument taking place in the lobby, and crouched on the stairs to eavesdrop. From here, she could see legs, and some of Charlie’s gesticulating hands.

“You want to throw him out now? He’s making a vaccine!”

“Oh, my dear naive girl… had it occurred to you that Baxter might have introduced the disease in the first place?”

“Why would he do that?

“A nice, controlled environment? A plethora of sinners to experiment on?”

There was a faint slapping noise as Charlie’s head fell into her hands. “Do you have evidence though, Al? _Do you have_ any basis for this? He’s trying to help people, and you could have evicted him last time when- Oh, Angel, where are you going?” 

Leslie heard his heels clicking against the floor. “I gotta go,” he grouched, “Val wants me.”

“No! I mean, no, please. I will… Look, forget the rent. I need you here! We’re trying to redeem you.”

“It ain’t just the money. You think I’m happy suckin’ off four guys at a time for that creep? I gotta go! He’ll have my ass if I don’t.”

“Al, how would you resolve this?”

Alastor affected a casual tone. “I could force Angel to stay, but I don’t think he wants that. Nor do I, frankly!”

“Oh, thanks, ya fuckin’... Deerface McGee.”

“There’s nothing you can do about Valentino?”

“Darling, he’s head of one of the largest industries in Hell, with considerable means and innumerable lackies! Add onto that the legends of his hedonism, and I wouldn’t touch the man with a bargepole half the length of the equator!”

Leslie’s knees began to ache from crouching, so she carefully sat on the nearest step. 

“Right,” Angel scoffed, “ya don’t gotta remind me. An’ you, don’t tell me your dad could get me outta this; my work stimulates his economy.”

“Oh my God, this is a nightmare,” Charlie wailed. 

“Hey, Princess, I’m sorry your project ain’t running so smooth,” said Angel, and Leslie was shocked to hear such venom in his voice. “That just, oooh, it must really be terrible - _shucks_ \- but some of us got real problems, OK? I’ve bin here for, what eight months, and nothin’s fuckin’ happened yet! Oh, yeah, except I caught the literal plague! My wings are long overdue! Where’s my fuckin’ wings, huh?”

There was a horrible pause, and Charlie’s voice returned in a quaver. “I don’t know, Angel. I thought…”

“Yeah, you thought.” His heels click-clacked again, growing fainter as he approached the entranceway. “I’m sicka lookin’ at this fuckin’ place. G’night!”

The door creaked open and slammed, and Leslie fought the inexplicable catch in her throat. She’d never heard Angel say anything so cruel. Had Leslie contributed to this, by not questioning the thing with Valentino? She’d thought he was a generic bad boss; she never asked probing questions.

Charlie gave a sniff. 

“Al,” she said, “can I have a hug?”

Leslie felt her ears prick up.

“I give terrible hugs,” Alastor replied, before giving a grunt to suggest Charlie had flung her arms around him anyway. Barely thinking a coherent thought, Leslie got up, slid down the banister, and landed with a soft thud.

“Don’t mind me,” she said, padding around the corner as Charlie let Alastor go. Whatever the two said next, she didn’t hear, as she headed to the kitchen and yanked a piece of fruit from the fridge. 

What could be done about an abusive overlord pimp like Valentino? Leslie knew she couldn't do much personally, not without one of those black market exterminator weapons. For a moment, she imagined breaking into Val’s lair, some tiny rabbit demon, a quarter of his size, and holding the blade to his neck, forcing him to let Angel go. She’d pull a Walter White, threaten him just enough to get what she wanted…

But it wouldn’t go that way. Best case scenario, she’d pay through the nose for a weapon that turned out to be fake, and Valentino would laugh and throw her out the window. 

Maybe there was a middle ground. If she got Alastor to help, invisible, behind the scenes… Val would still underestimate her at first, then think she wielded more power than she did, and not know how much of a threat she, a total stranger, posed…

“Coast is clear!”

Leslie turned. “Hello, Al.”

She’d held the fridge door open all this time, and he stretched out an arm to close it, assuring her that Charlie was headed upstairs. His hair didn’t have the distinctive blue band anywhere; she wondered how he’d got rid of it. 

“You really think Baxter gave everyone hellpox?” she asked.

“So you _were_ listening! It’s possible he did. In any case, a vaccine would spoil the fun, don’t you think?”

“Sometimes I forget how awful you are,” she said, and walked away. 

“You dropped something.”

“Huh?”

Leslie swiveled and saw him delicately holding something out. It looked like a pair of women’s briefs. In fact, it looked a lot like the pair she’d put on that morning. 

“Did you…?” She slipped a hand down the side of her leggings and felt her hipbone, and nothing else! “Hey! How…?” He was laughing at her now, his eyes crinkling, as she marched back over. “How the fuck did you do that?”

“A magician never reveals his secrets!”

“Look, are you keeping them or giving them back?”

Apparently, Alastor thought it was more insulting not to want them, and returned the undergarment, which she pocketed. Somewhere on her mental list of his confirmed powers, she added the ability to change and remove clothing. She left the room with dignity, still pondering what she could do about Valentino.

o - o - o - o - o

Moxxie hated the song ‘Closing Time’. No, that was a half-truth - he hated the way Blitzo sang it at the end of a working day. Often he’d jump onto a desk or two and theatrically kick office supplies across the room.

“Sir, we can't replace that if it breaks!” Moxxie complained over the ringing phone.

“If it breaks, it was shoddy workmanship!”

“Bliiiiiiiitzo.”

“Yeeees, Loonie?”

“It’s for you. Guy with the shit phone.”

As the boss went to take the call, Millie swung around the desk to hug Moxxie. 

“Closing time,” she sang, “time for you to go back to-”

“Damn it, not you too!”

“-the places you will be from…!”

Moxxie gave up and joined his wife, harmonizing with her. “I know who I want to take me home… I know who I want to take me home…”

Loona threw an empty can at them to make them shut up, then jerked a thumb at Blitzo in the next room. They fell silent in order to snoop.

“Look, I’m as confused as you are,” he said, sitting on the edge of a desk. Moxxie watched him kick his feet like a child. “Hey, it’s not _our_ fucking fault. She fits the description. Surname, age, occupation… Pretty sure she’s been telling lies, then. … Look, what do you want us to do? One target’s a dead end and the other doesn’t exist!”

Millie sighed in bafflement.

“Uhhhh, lemme think,” Blitzo continued. “Some stuff in storage, why?” There was a long pause as their boss took instructions. “Uh-huh. … What, now? But it’s after… Ugh! Fine. Yes, sir.” He hung up with a clatter. 

“Everything alright, sir?”

“Uh, nope-aroonie,” said Blitzo, kicking office supplies across the floor, closer to their original spot on the desk. “Client wants us to go back and steal some stuff from the target, for I guess corroboration purposes.”

“Right now?”

Sarcastically: “Ohhhh, you betcha!” There was an unpleasant noise as everyone rolled their eyes at once. “We’ll split it up. Loonie and Mill, you take the self-storage; Moxx, you come with me to mom’s house.”

“Fuck’s sake!”

“Tell you what,” Blitzo said, injecting some energy back into his voice, “our last stop in the living world’s gonna be takeout pizza, because I am the best boss ever!” His stomach rumbled. “Yep,” he decided, “the best boss ever!


	27. Attraction And Repulsion

Leslie approached Angel Dust the next morning, right outside his room. Angel looked like he’d had four hours of sleep, and that was a generous estimation.

“Has Val ever sent you compromising photographs?” she asked outright. 

His visage darkened so much and so quickly that Leslie took a fearful step back. “I should fuckin’ slap ya for sayin’ that,” he said. “Jesus Christ, Les, it’s seven in the mornin’. I am NOT in the mood.”

Too late, Leslie realized how insensitive she sounded and backpedaled furiously. “No, no, I swear it’s not…! I’m trying to help you! Look, I heard your argument in the lobby, and I was up all night trying to think of a plan.”

Angel Dust shoved his way past her, unimpressed, trying to smack some life into his own face.

“You said Lucifer wouldn’t go after Val because the porn thing is such a key industry,” Leslie said, a little hurriedly as they walked toward the stairs, “and maybe you’re right, and that’s terrible… but if he thought Val was harassing  _ Charlie,  _ he’d want to shove a cane up his ass alright.”

Angel stopped walking. “Wait, how… what?”

“The hard bit will be stealing Charlie’s phone,” she said, “but you’re a great lock-picker. You can grab it off the nightstand while she’s asleep, and I can do an impression of Charlie over the phone. After that, we just need to make the harassment story convincing. So, like, has Val ever sent you dick pics, that kind of thing?”

“Course he fuckin’ has!” Angel cried, “but I didn’t screenshot ‘em! They had no sentimental value.”

“OK, as long as we can give a  _ description _ -“

“Les, no!” He spun, looming down to grasp her shoulders. “Fuckin’ stop this. First of all, Charlie’s gotta lock screen, and we don’t know it. Second, ya think Lucifer is gonna be fooled by an impersonation of his kid? No fuckin’ way. It’s a stupid plan. ‘Specially with your accent.”

“I don’t have-”

“Say ‘Florida’.”

“Florida. What? I don’t… what was wrong with that?”

“You don’t hear that?”

Leslie sighed. “I can be Charlie… I just need some practice. This is the best plan I could come up with.”

They descended the stairs, both on foot. Leslie didn’t feel like using the banister this time. 

“Fuckin’... Look, I appreciate it, but it ain’t gonna work. My problem’s bigger ‘n both of us. I’m pretty much a slave by contract. Plus, Val can get nasty. One time I said somethin’ he didn’t like. Know what he did? Got one of his cronies to knock me out, tie me to an X-frame in the porn dungeon, and then feed me strong magnets a day apart.” He clapped his hands together to simulate the magnets meeting inside his body, and Leslie’s mouth fell open. 

“That’s horrible!”

“Yeah, well, you’re the one that wants ta talk about it. And he’ll do it to you if ya piss him off.”

He shrugged and stomped to the dining room, as Leslie tried to imagine the damage two swallowed magnets could wreak. Could it kill someone? Would they need surgery to remove them? What kind of monster could conceive of such a punishment?

She shook her head and walked aimlessly away. There had to be something. Surely she could think of something… God damn it, she wished she had more brains.

o - o - o - o - o

Leslie began to keep to herself outside of work hours (which included the dancing these days), thinking through her plan to call Lucifer, for it was still the best plan she had. What could the code be for unlocking Charlie’s phone? Perhaps Vaggie’s birthday, or their anniversary date. These were both things she could try to ask Charlie, in some inconspicuous way. As she turned things over in her head, Leslie avoided Alastor for a while. Since learning of Angel’s plight, meeting him felt somehow wrong, whether it was her idea or not.

Alastor noticed the sudden cold front and refused to be forgotten.

Sometimes he would wink - once, not twice - from across a room when no-one was looking, and draw satisfaction from her annoyance. Sometimes, when Leslie was alone, his shadow crept up behind her and grabbed her wrist, or backed her into a corner with one stern look. Then, of course, he would disappear before she could get her hands on him. This approach piqued her curiosity a little better. The shadow seemed to function as an extension of Alastor, more comfortable in his sexuality, although there was no real knowing with him. 

_ No, _ she told herself.  _ Don’t be distracted. They’re all talk... even if one of them doesn’t. _

On one occasion, Leslie crossed paths with Alastor in the hallway, and she kept her head up as she passed by, maintaining the facade of mere acquaintance. In response, Alastor turned and aimed a hard smack at her backside. 

“Yippp!”

She jumped half a foot in the air; her arms stiffened at her sides, and she landed like a dropped chess piece. Leslie froze, incapable of knowing which was worse, to under- or overreact. In the meantime, he kept walking and disappeared into another room. 

“Pffft. Ha ha ha.”

Charcoal and his friend had noticed, but that was their only response. Neither curiosity nor suspicion. Leslie remembered that as far as the world knew, Alastor was perpetually a personal-space-invader, and did not discriminate. _ Just walk it off,  _ she told herself, _ you’ll be fine.  _ So she went on her merry way, with only a little residual sting from the flat of Alastor’s hand.

o - o - o - o - o

Finally he caught her heading to bed one night, snatching Leslie from behind and teleporting them several floors up, to the rooftop.

“Fucking hell!” she said, slinking out of his grip. “Why?”

“Thought a change of scenery would be nice!” he said. “And I’ll bet you’ve never had such a splendid view of the Pentagram.”

Leslie rolled her eyes and didn’t bother to explain she’d been here before. “Whatever,” she said. “Look, I’m keeping my distance for a reason, OK? My friend is in trouble. Clearly you don’t want to do anything about it, so I will.”

He laughed as the breeze played with the lengths of his hair. “Oh my dear, what can you possibly do?”

“None of your business.” Leslie huffed impatiently, rubbing her arms against the cold night air. “You know, I bet you could do something. You’ve toppled overlords before, haven’t you?”

“In a word, yes. Did you ever see the broadcast?”

“No, and I don’t want to.” 

She looked at him: tall, smiling as ever, and quite unaffected by the idea that Angel could be suffering. He would never help them… unless she made it worth his while. And so Leslie propositioned him, bargaining in the only way she could: Leslie would let Alastor do something particularly horrible to her, in exchange for his help in vanquishing Valentino. Even as he pointed out that he could do horrible things regardless, and Leslie had no power to stop him, she reminded him that a morsel of consent,  _ grudging _ consent which guaranteed regret, would make the thing interesting for him. 

It did seem to whet his whistle. Alastor began to circle her, sizing her up and down. At one point, he took out his cane and held it under her chin, forcing her to look up at him. The prolonged consideration made her nervous.

“And what kind of horrible thing would Leslie permit?”

She swallowed. Nothing else came to mind. “I’ll let you feed me magnets,” she said, “strong ones, a day apart.” 

He stood and imagined the consequences. “Hm,” he said, his grin widening. “Well, it may take a while to formulate a plan. We shall keep this deal separate from our main contract.”

“Sure.”

“And just when should we be doing this? I presume you want to deliver your friend from his shackles sooner rather than later.”

Leslie nodded, and her mind was consumed by the imagined pains of the magnet torture. Then she thought of Angel, and the tone of his voice whenever he talked about Valentino. “Sooner,” she agreed.

“Good.”

“One more thing,” she added. “I don’t want anyone to know about my part of the deal. Least of all Angel. That clear?”

“As crystal.”

So Alastor extended his hand to shake, glowing green as a leprechaun’s hat, and Leslie placed her clammy palm in his. It was settled. As Alastor whisked them back to the first floor and sent her away, she crossed her arms and repeated that mantra over and over again: You cannot die. You cannot die…. But every time, a small voice in her head responded:  _ You can wish to die. _

o - o - o - o - o

Across town, the overlord called Rosie took out her key and entered her emporium from the front. Today she was dressed simply, for ease of movement, and not to spoil a nicer garment through the course of business. The key turned and let her in. Apparently the blood soaking the hem of her dress had run dry, so she was not worried about the state of the floor. It would be nice to slip out of this outfit and into a warm bath.

She trip-trapped up their stairs, gloved hands trailing delicately along the stair rail, and strolled into her bedroom. First she removed the skirt and shirtwaist, the bust ruffle and corset-cover, and then on to the corset itself. This part was tricky without another demon to help her, but Rosie was just as fiercely independent now as she’d ever been. Nobody helped her out of clothes, not even her shadows. 

Rosie untied the bow of the corset’s threads and loosened the first few Xs, sighing as she found more room to breathe. Once that was finished, onto unhooking the studs at the front, and finally easing the damned thing from her torso. Sweet relief! The pain and effort of wearing this corset were almost enough to make her consider more contemporary fashion.

The telephone rang from her bedside table, and she marched over to answer it. 

“Rosie’s Emporium. Rosie speaking. How may I help you?”

“Hello, Turnip.”

Rosie clapped a happy hand over her mouth and spun on the spot, wrapping herself in the phone’s cord. Her dear, damned, awful friend had finally returned a call. All was forgiven.

“Ohhhh, you fiend! You utter fiend! I should be terribly cross,” she scolded. “How long has it been? A month?” 

“Yes, I do apologize. You know how it goes. Been rather tied up with this charity work I’ve been doing.”

Rosie sat on her mattress, unclipping the garters from her stockings with one hand. “This so-called charity work makes you the subject of much gossip,” she said. “Of course I understand it, but…”

“Yes, well, I’m delighted to say we are failing miserably,” replied her friend. “Not a single sinner has been redeemed, and I have barely interfered. We even suffered an outbreak of hellpox, which had many guests storming out in droves. Of course I couldn’t risk passing it onto you…”

“Excuses, excuses,” she said. “I’ve heard them all before.”

“Have someone read you the papers sometime!”

She dashed off the suggestion - no need to insist on it; she believed him. “So… you’re happy?” Rosie asked, as nonchalantly as she could. He could not be allowed to know how much it pained her, that her friend might be happier from a distance. 

“Yes, surprisingly,” he said, and paraphrased one of the diarists they had used to love: “One cannot complain of life who has health and a pursuit. And there is something else: I’ve got myself a pet.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes! Small and cute… rather a challenge to train, but we’re getting there. It’s nice to own a creature that makes me work for it.”

_ And what am I to you? _ Rosie thought. “That sounds lovely,” she said. “Don’t go giving it a name.”

“Why not?”

“Mustn’t grow attached,” she joked - as if her friend got truly attached to anybody. “I know you; you’ll eat it once it’s full-grown.”

“Perhaps. I hope you’ve been keeping well?” he asked, suddenly sounding tired, as if the act of checking in with her was physically exhausting. She ignored it and told him how she was - the state of the emporium, the adversary she reprimanded today. After that, he inquired after some special items, heavily implying that they were to be used for torture, and Rosie made a mental note to order them in. Of course she would. Would he pick them up himself, or send an associate? Probably the latter.

“Well, thank you for calling,” she told him. “Take care, my sweetpea.”

“Goodbye.”

Rosie hung up with mingled emotions. It was a good sign that she could keep their conversation short and to the point. It would not do to appear desperate. But he did test her patience. All she wanted was a little consideration, a modicum of respect. One of these days, her friend would forget to call just one day too many, and Rosie would not be responsible for her actions. 


	28. Making Meaning

“Vaggie and I have organized something really special for this weekend,” Charlie announced to Group 1. “We’re bringing together all the guests to watch a movie, and afterwards, we’ll discuss its merits, and compare our interpretations of the subject matter!”

Leslie, sitting _sans_ notebook for once, discreetly offered a marshmallow to Angel Dust, who impaled it onto his gold fang before chewing. This morning, he had forgiven the well-meaning but fruitless plan to vanquish Valentino. Possibly the candy had something to do with it.

“The movie we’ve picked,” Charlie continued, “is often stated to be one of the best and most culturally significant films of all time-”

“Die Hard?”

“No, not Die Hard,” she chided. “It’s a story of the power of the human spirit, a story about finding freedom and hope even in the darkest of places…!”

“Wayne’s World?”

The interjections were silly enough to make Leslie laugh, but she tried to conceal it for Charlie’s sake. 

“Oh, I know,” Angel Dust said. “It’s that fuckin’ prison movie, right? The Stephen King adaptation, uh… whatjamacallit.”

“The Shawshank Redemption, yes.”

“Seen it.”

“Seen it!”

As the assembled demons sounded off, Charlie waved her hands dismissively. “Well,” she said, “you’re expected to attend at least the second half of the evening for a discussion of the movie’s themes. No exceptions! If you need an excuse to get out of work, we will talk to your bosses. We want you all here to attend and share your thoughts, or just listen to others. Even if you _have_ seen Shawshank, re-viewing it will certainly be helpful.”

Leslie had seen the movie once, as a teenager, and her mom had chased her out of the room for certain scenes. It might be good to watch it again. Hell, it had ‘redemption’ right there in the title; if Charlie said this movie was good for the soul, then of course it was. Still, the mandatory attendance was a new feature of the hotel’s curriculum. Would it not be simpler to show the film separately to each group?

“They prob’ly don’t wanna sit through it six or seven times,” Angel Dust opined as they left the session. “Don’t blame ‘em, to be honest. Wanna grab a drink in the hall?”

“Er…” Leslie checked her watch. “Sure, I’ve got time. Why the hall, though?”

Angel explained that someone had re-erected the fallen pole, and he liked to watch regular demons dancing around it. “Fuckin’ amateurs, always fallin’ on their faces,” he said. “Priceless.”

o - o - o - o - o

Leslie rapped on Alastor’s door after her shift on Friday night. Her fear of the magnets was interfering with daily life, and she wanted to get it over with. Why couldn’t she have thought of a lesser torture? Doing a thousand push-ups… Eating those insanely hot chilies… Anything but this. 

_No excuses,_ she thought. _If you can subject yourself to pain and discomfort for a few kisses, you can do it to help Angel._

Alastor answered the door with that smug grin of his.

“Are they here?” she asked.

“They’re here!” he confirmed. “Had them picked up this afternoon.”

Her stomach shrank. “Oh, goody.”

Placing his hand at the small of her back, he showed her to the desk, where the magnets were sitting. They were small enough to go down easily, without water, even, and were stuck together fast.

“Now, these are…” Alastor hesitated, fluttering the fingers of his left hand. “I don’t remember the pull grade, but they can hold at least a few pounds of weight! Rare earth magnets, they are called. Probably they will cause micro-tearing, whereas these…” He reached across the desk, and Leslie saw two more metallic lumps, also stuck together. “Not quite as strong, but when they do meet, the larger surface area should-!”

“OK, yeah, I get the picture,” Leslie said, stepping back. A raw, unpleasant chill ran over her skin. 

“Well, my darling,” Alastor asked, as he tossed the larger magnets in his hand, “which is it to be?”

She looked from one set to the other. “I don’t know.”

“Let’s go with the smaller,” he proposed, picking them up and replacing the other two. With some difficulty, Alastor prised the rare earth magnets apart; then he amused himself by trying in vain to make the like poles meet. Leslie darted forward before he could make the opposite poles snap together; it was a visual she didn’t need. 

“OK.” 

Alastor placed a hand under her chin and mimed opening his mouth. She copied him. The magnet was cold against her tongue, tasting clean, like the flat of a knife. It was small enough, and yet she still gagged as she tried to swallow; likely a psychological reflex, to protect her from what she knew was harmful.

“Good girl,” he said, patting her on the head. “You can have the other one tomorrow!”

“Can I? Oh thank you.”

Alastor chuckled, his hand still resting atop her skull. “I’ll remind you, this was your idea!” he said. “Not one of your brightest.”

“Hm.”

Leslie swallowed a few more times; meanwhile, Alastor moved behind his desk, opened a drawer and took something out. As he touched her arm, the world around them shunted, and they stood in some sort of library room, built around a long table, surrounded with dust-covered bookcases and the smell of antiquated paper. From the window view, she figured they were halfway up the building.

“I didn’t know we had a library.”

Alastor moved to the end of the room, towards one of those old televisions on an AV cart; and there he paused for a moment, puzzling over the set. He seemed to be holding a stack of DVD cases, not knowing what to do with them. Was he really so clueless about modern tech? Leslie strolled over, pleased to be in a position to teach him, as the opportunity came so rarely.

“So, the DVD slot is here,” she explained. “You press that, and then take the disc you…” She trailed off, noticing the covers on his DVDs. “Alastor! What the fucking fuck?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Why do you have these?”

He had the nerve to shrug. Leslie snatched away the cases and put some distance between herself and Alastor. It was bad enough he’d seen her old self in photographs, but finding and taking the videos was too far, and she felt a rash of embarrassment which threatened to eclipse the outrage.

“Well, pardon me for taking an interest!” he said.

Leslie felt her claws dig into the plastic. “Interest? Oh, bullshit!” she argued. “Leave my past alone! God, you won’t be happy until you’ve laid claim to _every part_ of my life, will you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alastor said, coming to get her. “This was just curiosity: part of my research into your sins, such as they are. No-one is marking their territory! The vee-dees are yours, and you’re free to reclaim them-” he took her arm, “ _-after_ you clear something up for me!”

She sighed and let herself be dragged. “Oh?”

With Leslie’s grudging assistance, they posted the topmost disc into the set. Mortifyingly, she was on the DVD menu as a randomized freeze-frame, in mid-dance with her arms stretched and chin doubled. _Lovely._ She wished she didn’t care, but that was the thing about her relationship to Alastor: he made her self-conscious for the smallest imperfections. Moments of ugliness and fatigue. Her awkward laughter. The perspiration from prolonged work and exercise. Moments of humanity, spiritual notions, feelings... all anathema to him, all things he professed not to have.

But did he mean to make Leslie self-conscious? He’d argue it was all in her own head, a problem she gave herself by comparing to him. 

Alastor sped throughout the recording, remote control in hand. “I was watching this one,” he said, “but as you see, it keeps-”

“Going and going. Yep.”

“What is the context for this?”

Leslie leaned on the table, next to him, ignoring the footage. “Charity danceathon,” she explained. “Just me breaking it down for six hours straight, and this is footage of… maybe half. Didn’t smash any world records, but we raised $1,100 for cancer research, so it went pretty well!”

“Who is we?”

“Uh, my DJ friend did a quick set, my mom was helping out, my sister filmed... it was a great day. And, y’know, Karlton turned up for _some_ of it,” she added, “but six hours is a long time.”

Alastor gave her a look, but held his tongue. With a few jabs of the remote, Old Leslie spun and skipped and shimmied and tangoed in increasingly fast motion; in lieu of reliving it, New Leslie examined the spines of nearby books. There was no cohesive genre that she could see, and one of the empty shelves had a message carved into the back: “GET THESE OUT OF MY ROOM ~ HUSK”. 

Near the end of her bygone performance, Alastor found what he was looking for. 

“There,” he said, switching to regular play. In the video, Old Leslie was kneeling with her eyes unfocused, arms reaching up and out in faultless repetition. Barely audible was the song that accompanied her dance. That day, the autoplay consigned her, with this particular song, to a deep, dark place. “What were you inebriated with for this dance?” Alastor asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Nothing,” she insisted. “Just Gatorade and liquid protein.”

“Hogwash,” he said (the Alastor version of ‘bullshit’), and pointed at the TV. “Look at you. Tell me that’s only exhaustion!”

Indeed, Old Leslie had a queer, crazed expression on her tired face. She crouched, swabbing the floor with her head, clawing across the polyvinyl, and raising her arms to the heavens. And the song? There were no lyrics, only drums, claps, metallic wub-synth, and a woman’s throat-singing. The throat-singing was the soul of the thing. Sometimes they were electronically stuttered, but regardless, the vocalist told a tale in desperate gasps, in the primal spirit of a race for one’s life.

“I hate that song,” Leslie said. 

“Then why do you have it?”

Like the photos of herself and Karl: too painful to use or discard. Just another stupid relic she was compelled to keep.

“It was meant for something else,” she murmured, fingers resting on her temples. “This woman I saw once, she wanted to do some physical theater. She’d had this really traumatic experience I won’t go into, but this song and dance was supposed to help express it. Be kind of-”

“Primitive?”

“Yes! Like… the oldest form of dance.” Leslie gestured to the screen. “This is what I’ve been talking about, with the… I don’t know. Maybe _you_ dance for the joy of it, _Angel_ dances sexy-”

“As do we, on occasion!”

“But there’s another facet to dance, and you're staring right at it. It means something…” she said, sitting back, “if you’re not a sociopath, anyway.”

There was a lull between them, as Alastor watched Leslie’s former flesh-vessel wring itself dry on the dance floor.

“You project,” he said, “ _astonishing_ weakness.”

A defeated sigh. “Let’s turn this off then.”

“Pick one of the others.”

She grumbled, but did as he suggested. One of the DVD cases gave her an idea. Before the horrid tune could reach its crescendo, she ejected the disc and replaced it. “This one is interesting,” she said, “because it’s me and the troupe rehearsing a talent show audition. See if you can guess which one I am.”

It was a standard ensemble piece, the music unremarkable, but Alastor soon saw the interesting part. All twelve members of Dance Dance Revelation, as they were called, wore identical skin-tight garments, facial coverings and wigs. With skin and hair concealed, it was nigh impossible to discern one dancer from the other, which was exactly the point. Alastor left the table’s edge, standing beside her with a competitive sheen in his eye.

“The front row?” he asked.

“I’m not going to tell you.”

Leslie’s clumsy hands put away the danceathon disc; her attention was for Alastor as he focused on the screen. His jaw was clipped shut, still smiling, but concentrated. So often she’d felt his discerning gaze; it was strange to see it from the outside.

“There,” he said, and pointed. 

She checked it out. “Hey, you got it! Good guess!”

“You needn’t humor me.”

“No, really, you got it right. OK, look away for a sec.” He did, regarding the ceiling until the troupe had shuffled. “Try now,” she said.

Alastor, again, gave the matter serious consideration. It was not a case of eenie-meenie-miney-mo; he seemed to refer to some inner knowledge he couldn’t possibly possess. Eventually, he pointed again. “You!” he declared.

She nodded in surprise, reaching for the remote. “Yep. That’s me,” she said. What gave it away? _Never mind._ This time, Leslie sped through the dance at x8 speed, determined to catch him out. Pause. “Here. Last try.”

This time, he barely hesitated. “This one.”

Leslie pressed play and let the remote fall, literally struck dumb. _Only twelve of us,_ she told herself; it wasn’t like he’d blindly plucked the aces from a shuffled deck… Still, he gave the correct answer so fast. How did he guess right the last time, when the troupe’s differing kinesics was removed by the pause button?

“That’s weird,” she said. “I don’t… ”

Alastor didn’t wait for the question he knew was coming; instead he stood up and stretched. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m in a dancing mood! Shall we?” Without waiting for an answer, he took her hand and spun her so rapidly her ears flew out and smacked her in the face. 

“Ow!”

“Whoopsie!”

She heard his inner radio, the dial tuning back and forth, until the air was filled with a jazz standard of his choosing: Leon Redbone’s rendition of “Some Of These Days”, according to him. As they danced, Leslie tried to shrug off her cares, dancing as he did, for the hell of it, laughing with the tempo changes; and just for a few minutes, she forgot what a bastard he was, and about the magnet slipping through her digestive system.


	29. The Hazbin Redemption

Friday turned to Saturday, and Leslie spent a restless night dreaming about her family. Usually her bad dreams revolved around Alastor, or the car crash that killed her; this one constituted a drastic change in the genre, as her sister and their parents wanted to know  _ why, oh why _ Leslie had abandoned them. 

She figured it was caused by Alastor digging through her past: the photographs, dancing videos and so on. Living in Hell, it was easy to forget what regular human beings looked like. Memories stirred up memories, which led to weird dreams like this. Sitting up in bed, she tried to recreate the sounds of her family’s voices in her head, and it was alarmingly difficult.  _ Forgetting them so soon. _

The movie showing was at 1pm, so Leslie killed time at the Front Desk, shotgunning several gin bucks in a row. Anything to quell the nervous nausea - unless it wasn’t nerves at all, and the ingested magnet was just fucking up her gizzards instead. Was that a thing? What effect did magnets have on the human body? They were drawn to metal, and blood happened to have iron in it... Confused and feeling stupid, she turned to the internet to assuage her worries.

From the bar, she watched the open doors of the reception hall. When Vaggie and Charlie walked through, dragging a five-pound bag of pre-made popcorn, she followed them in. The set-up was surprisingly modest, reminding Leslie of school. Rows of hard-back chairs, at 90 degrees to the stage, faced a chalkboard easel with a white bed sheet draped over it, and a movie projector somewhere in the middle. Vaggie tore open the popcorn, piquing the interest of fifteen-or-so demons already present. They ambled towards it, like dairy cows to a bucket of feed.

“Hey, no sticky mitts, please!” Charlie scolded. “Paper trays are over here!”

Leslie chose an aisle seat in the back row, keeping one for Angel Dust; she figured his height would be a problem to the other guests. It didn’t matter where he sat for teaching sessions, but here, she could imagine the chorus of Down-In-Fronts from disgruntled demons.

The guests continued to trickle in as 1pm came and went, including Ginerva, who looked excited to be off work for a few hours. Mr. Rapier didn’t much like losing two waitresses on a Saturday afternoon, but he hadn’t fired them at least. Leslie’s blood began to chill as Alastor teleported into the room with his desk chair and made himself comfortable, also at the back row, as it happened. Their eyes met.

“Hi,” she said. 

As pre-arranged, he winked at Leslie, who checked her pocket, and there was the other magnet. He kept it til now to make sure she didn’t ‘accidentally’ lose it, and silently commanded her to gulp it down. Though the public setting precluded Alastor himself from feeding it to her, he could watch as she placed it on her tongue like a pill and swallowed. There was no sleight-of-hand or concealment under the tongue, and he was happy. All that remained was to wait for the fireworks. 

Angel Dust took his seat beside her as Charlie thanked everyone for coming. “I see we still have some empty seats,” she said, “but the others should be arriving when the movie’s over. Please take some time during your viewing to think and reflect on what our characters are going through, and we’ll share our thoughts at the end! OK, thank you!”

The lights dimmed, the projector whirred electronically, and finally they settled in for The Shawshank Redemption. It began in late-1940s Portland, Maine, with its protagonist, Andy Dufresne, listening to a car radio. Leslie felt her face warm as she recognized a song by The Ink Spots. Only a week ago, Alastor played the same tune in his office. 

“Fuck,” she whispered, giving Angel a nudge. “This must really hit different if you were alive for this.”

“‘47’s the year I croaked,” he whispered back. “Just missed it.”

Leslie sat tall in her seat, taking in the story. There was a new feeling, one she hadn’t known years ago on her first viewing. As Andy was bussed down to Shawshank prison to serve two life sentences, the fear and uncertainty on his face was clear. She knew that feeling from her first days in Hell: a feeling of fear, not belonging, and having to be quiet about it for safety’s sake.

If the hotel managers expected silent, orderly viewing, they were initially disappointed, as the guests tended to heckle. The death of a nameless character was met with a loud “Shoulda shut the fuck up, Fatass!”, and numerous Morgan Freeman impersonations made the rounds, as Vaggie told each demon in turn to shut up. 

Then came the storyline about Bogs and the other Sisters. Angel Dust tensed up when the first implication was made, and during a later confrontation in the movie, he stood and excused himself. “Goin’ for a smoke,” he told Leslie. “Tell me what happens.” 

While her friend took a comfort break, Leslie periodically glanced at Alastor. Sometimes he was busy shaking powdered spices into his popcorn, which he picked at like a bird; other times he returned the gaze, checking her visage for pain. Nothing yet, and the healthy buzz from her gin was almost worn off. She ate more popcorn herself: if one magnet was cushioned in partially-digested food, with luck, it would never get to know the other one.

Angel returned in time for the scene on the rooftop, where Andy performed a benevolent act of helping an especially nasty prison guard with taxes, in exchange for beers for his ‘co-workers’. There were a few snide demonic remarks, but not many, and Leslie felt a stirring in herself, wishing she could understand that certain male camaraderie that the movie portrayed.

The film seemed to have something to say about the prisoners’ usefulness to their guards. Once Andy assisted with taxes, the guards punished his abuser (Angel nodded stiffly as Bogs was beaten to a bloody pulp), then removed Andy from the laundry room and placed him in the library: something ‘more befitting a man of your education’, as the Warden put it. The cynic in Leslie half-remembered, half-sensed where this was going. 

For perhaps the most powerful scene, Andy blasting the song from The Marriage of Figaro, the room was quiet. The room forgot the filter between realities; they forgot this was a work of fiction they could heckle. Even the hardest man in the room could find something to identify with, Leslie thought… but she didn’t look at Alastor, in case he proved her wrong.

They sat through the proceeding beats of the movie: Tommy’s unsettling story, the Warden showing his true colors and Andy using his brains to find true freedom at last. There was a sense of solidarity in the room - Fuck Norton! Fuck the prison! - and a collective lifting of the spirit as the thing came to its end. Leslie and Angel Dust exchanged a grin. This was the hope she felt from staying at the hotel: the hope that their souls could be washed clean and delivered to their own Zihuatanejo.

The movie ended and Leslie heard a chorus of cheers and ‘wahey’s from the front - not for the conclusion of a fine piece of cinema, but because Vaggie pulled a wheelbarrow of cold beers into view. It seemed fitting, Charlie explained, to replicate the rooftop-tarring scene and let the demons “feel like free men” as thanks for watching the film; at least, that was the idea. Not everyone jumped forward to accept their bottle of suds, but the ones who did seemed grateful.

They waited for the remaining guests to enter for the second-half seminar, and Leslie remembered her magnets. Still nothing, and she shrugged in Alastor’s direction.

“OK, so, a lot to unpack,” Vaggie said, taking charge as soon as everyone settled down. “First of all, if I may lead the discussion for a sec… Hell’s not a perfect analogy for prison.”

“Fuckin’ A, it’s not!” someone called out. 

“No. There’s no guards, no steel bars… You keep your identity down here if you’re lucky. But there are similarities. Most of the dealings of Shawshank run on a currency of cigarettes, did you notice? Everyone has a price and everyone’s bought off at their respective levels. Same here; very rarely do you see a charitable act. Also,” she continued, “remember Andy’s remark of being ‘straight as an arrow’ outside, and only becoming a crook once he went to jail?”

Leslie clasped her hands in agreement, a little louder than she meant to; her friend gave her a look. 

“Well, you know Hell is no picnic. Existing in this place forces many of you to turn to rotten dealings. That at least can be understood, if not condoned.” Leslie recognized this as an almost-direct quote from the opening scenes; Vaggie must have loved Shawshank very much to reference it exactly. “So, don’t take the film as a literal metaphor for Hell. I mean, how many people here have been to prison?” Vaggie asked. Many hands were raised. “Was this movie accurate to your experiences?” 

“Uh, pretty much,” said Kain - never too shy to give his opinion. “Dufresne’s stretches in solitary brought back a few bad memories.”

“Oh yeah, fuck  _ that!” _

“And becoming institutionalized,” Charlie queried, “any experiences with that?”

“Sure,” said Charcoal. “Maybe that’s why I don’t hate the crap outta the hotel, ‘cos I got used to routine.”

They talked over the lessons of the movie. Andy writing all those letters, proving that perseverance (or simply being as annoying as possible) would pay off in the end. The record-player scene, insinuating that not all rule-bending was bad. Happiness was fleeting. A tit-for-tat partnership would eventually fail when one party defected: “Remember when they threatened to take Andy’s privileges away?” Vaggie reminded them.

“Dickheads.”

“Exactly. And the Warden’s hypocrisy is pretty damn clear. Keeping the safe-deposit box behind a cross-stitch, saying ‘His judgment cometh and that right soon’? He’s literally hiding his corrupt deeds behind a god-fearing facade.”

They further discussed the fact that Brooks, a favorite character of Leslie’s, had grown so used to prison that he could not handle the outside world. Perhaps certain demons felt this way too? A long stretch in Hell might make them fear Heaven, Charlie said, or they might think they could never make it there. If that was the case, hope was what they needed. Like Andy, they needed to believe there were places in the world not made of (brim)stone, and take freedom into their own hands.

Not everyone was convinced.

“Hey, we’re all missing the big thing here,” said Kain (Leslie couldn’t see him, but he sounded contemptuous), “which is… well, we know who  _ our  _ warden is, right? Big Guy from Upstairs. He’s running our prison, when you think about it. He excludes us from that garden of His-”

Charlie butted in. “Again, the prison metaphor doesn’t-”

“-and our warden’s crooked too! Redemption’s OK, but why are we doing it His way? Following the rules of some imperfect system, when we should be changing the system.”

“Nah, the warden is these cunts,” claimed Crymini from a middle row seat. “They frame their fucking operation as, like, rehab, then don’t tell us how long we’ll be paying for it.”

“That’s not-!” Charlie began to say, then looked uncomfortable. “Alastor, help.”

“They’ve got a point, darling. How long has it been for some of your guests?”

While Charlie and Vaggie convened for a terse moment, Leslie saw the radio demon looking over at her. Still nothing had become of her in three hours, aside from feeling queasy. Was Alastor getting impatient? She saw him surreptitiously point the claw of his middle finger at her, and then curl it in. Her insides stirred.

SNAP!

Leslie made an inhuman noise as she fell forward, gripping her abdomen. Startled, a few demons craned around to look. They snorted with laughter, but Angel Dust leaned over.

“Auuuugh!”

“Jesus fuck! What’s the matta?”

She couldn’t answer. All she had was horror and regret.  _ No! _ she thought.  _ I take it back! _

Vaggie and Charlie were coming this way. Time to go. Without looking once at Alastor, for fear of implicating him and voiding their deal, Leslie got up and fled, still lowing in pain. The walls of her internal organs had met unceremoniously, and there was nothing she could do. She couldn’t even see it. 

Angel made a hesitant, lukewarm effort to follow as she climbed the stairs. “Les, you gonna be a’right?”

“Crampssss,” she said, and got out of his sight, crawling the rest of the way.

She made it to her room and lay on the mattress, offering her pain to God and keening to herself, until a certain someone appeared, and she felt his radiant smile tanning the back of her neck. Leslie did not resist as he picked her up and carried her in one arm, his popcorn in the other... back to Alastor's lair for further spectation. 


	30. Vomit, Blood and Other Fluids

She passed a horrible evening, curled up on his couch. Alastor watched for a while, but said he couldn’t stay: it was important to make appearances downstairs, so as not to connect them. The eye of his cane continued to watch her from the door, though, burning red in her haloed periphery. Alone with her thoughts, she wondered when her organs were supposed to heal from this. Could they heal? The magnets clung so tightly that they must be cutting off the blood supply to something. Leslie imagined her digestive system turning necrotic, dying off… and still, the pain grew.

Alastor returned in time to see her throw up into a vase she’d plucked from his desk.

“Dear, oh dear,” he said, voice bristling with static. “Poor Leslie.”

“Help me,” she groaned.

“Just one moment,” he bargained, picking her up again. She was sweating through her clothes, though barely conscious of it, and shaking gently. Alastor held her against him, drinking her pain.

“Please.”

“I could demagnetize them,” he mused, “if the heat was high enough! But it _would_ involve scorching you from the ins-”

“No, no no no! Not that!”

Alastor walked her back to the couch, and took back the vase, examining the contents before setting it down. “Or,” he said, “I can try to remove them. That could be tricky. Taking your clothing off you is one thing, but the gastrointestinal tract… quite another.”

Leslie nodded her head and sat, permitting him to try. So Alastor cracked his knuckles and knelt beside her, holding a gloved hand over her lower abdomen. A moment passed, and Leslie gave a sob. The internal pressures were slowly, slowly easing off, as Alastor pried the magnets apart sight unseen. A moment later, she felt them leave her, and the wall which concealed the fireplace scraped open across the room. A soft phwumph as the flames ignited, then a metallic clinking; he’d thrown the magnets in the fire. The mortification was over.

“There!” he said.

Forgetting the details of their deal - including the fact he’d poked the magnets down her neck to begin with - she fell against him, covering Alastor with kisses. “Oh, thank you, thank you.”

He resisted her affections, like a normal person resisted the friendly licks of a puppy. “Alright, settle down!”

Alastor picked up his cane and returned to the desk, seemingly to watch what it had recorded of her struggle. As suggested, Leslie took time to recuperate. The vase was placed atop one of the side tables, and it reeked of stomach acid and copper. When she felt sufficiently recovered, Leslie asked: “What now?”

“Now? You’re free to go.”

She sighed, pushing down the first traces of migraine. “Why don’t you come back here and keep me company?”

A pause as Alastor considered it. “Well, you have put yourself through some ordeal,” he said. “I _could_ be sweeter to you!”

_Yes, yes, you could!_

“But you didn’t do it for sweetness,” he countered. “This was a deal made for Angel’s sake! My part in this is foiling Valentino, is it not?”

Damn it, he was right. _Fuck._ She sagged in place, and finally got to her feet. When she glanced over, he looked at her through steepled fingers.

“I wish you could’ve seen yourself,” he said.

“Huh?”

“That first cry of yours.” Alastor stayed seated, a malevolent smile playing over his lips. It was distasteful, but she had no argument. The fire from the hearth warmed the side of her face and her left ear.

“Sorry for puking in your vase,” she said. “Also, thanks again for… well. I’ll go.” And she did.

o - o - o - o - o

“Pretty sure they’re down there,” Husk said, hauling open the door to the cellar. “Just need yer help a sec.”

Angel nodded. They both had a little issue navigating the door-frame: Husk drew in his wings, and Angel Dust was forced to stoop. After that, the stone stairway had narrow steps which required their concentration not to go sprawling down them accidentally. Funny, he’d taken one friend to the roof of the hotel, and now he and Husk were going down beneath it. How many floors was that?

Reminded of Leslie, he checked his phone, as soon as it was safe. No reply yet. Hopefully she was OK.

“Over here,” said Husk. They shoved a pile of boxes to the side of the room, to reveal a trapdoor sporting a heavy padlock. “Care to do the honors?”

Angel took out his lockpicks and got to work. It was an old, rusty thing, resistant to his efforts.

“Come on,” he joked, not for the first time, “just let it happen. Ha ha.” Husk wasn’t laughing. The lock clicked and opened. The pair took the trapdoor and lifted, and the sight of what lay below broke them out in identical grins.

“I knew it!”

“Fuck yeah! Up top,” Angel said. The two high-fived in celebration. That cat had been looking for the hidden whiskey stash since Vaggie had hidden it. All he needed, but didn’t have, was the skills of an experienced lock-picker.

Moments later, they sat on the final, more expansive stone step, taking turns to swig from an 18-year-old single malt Glenfiddich. They split it 70:30, and it was the only repayment Husk felt like offering, so Angel accepted. It took them a while, that is, halfway through the bottle, to start swapping stories. Husk kicked off with a tale about him and his army buddies. Angel abandoned his phone, giving the cat his undivided attention. Such a sparkling, yet brusque way of talking he had, even by Hell's standards; so different from the carefully-measured PC crap that came out of the hotel owners constantly. It was brilliant. It was what this world needed.

“You can imagine how that went down with the doc,” Husk finished with a rattling chuckle, and tipped his head back with the bottle. “You got any good ones?”

Boy, did he. “So here’s one _I_ never told before,” Angel Dust said.

“Never told? Likely fukken story,” Husk grumbled. “You’d have to take out yer spine to be more of an open book.”

Angel laughed. “Hey, just ‘cause the world’s seen my asshole don’t mean I can’t have secrets! So, this was like my sexual debut. I was eleven-”

“Jesus.”

“Nah, on my own! I meant jerkin’ off. Eleven years old, and I had the top half of a bunk bed with my brotha, y’know? Which meant I had to be extra quiet this one night, so he didn’t figure out what I was doin’. You got any brothas?”

“No.”

“Sistas?”

“No.” He took a long swig.

“OK. Well, there I was in bed, thinkin’ about all the racy words I’d looked up in the dictionary…”

“Ha,” said Husk, half-smirking. “Guess we’ve all done that.”

“Right? So I’m chokin’ the bishop with my pajamas all the way off, an’ I see someone’s watching me from overhead.” Angel took his turn to drink. “Little arachnid guy on a line of silk.”

“A spider?”

“‘Xactly. Now, at the time I weren’t _too_ afraid of spidas, but they weren’t my fave either. I kept my eye on it…” Angel mimed stroking himself off, with an agitated expression to fully recreate the scene. “I thought it’d stay where it was, and I kinda wanted to finish. So I’m gettin’ closer and closer… and I mean like the _second_ before I come, this spida drops onto my face with its legs splayed.”

“Fuck,” said Husk. “I thought you were gonna say the spider bit your dick or something.”

“Nah, thank fuck. But I shouted out, like in panic, and bumped my head as I sat up, but I’m past the point of no return, and I shoot my load onto the ceilin’.”

“As you do.”

“Arakniss wakes up, my folks and Molly rush in thinkin’ I’m being murdered, an’ there’s me: naked in bed, with my dick still sayin’ hi, plus I’m slappin’ the spider off my arms, plus the ceilin’ is drippin’ onto me, I think… It was a mess.”

“Pass the bottle?”

Angel Dust watched Husk’s throat move as he drank. “Ya’d think I’d never jerk off again,” Angel said, “but that bit of terror gave me some kinda rush. I can’t explain it. I transcended the human plane of existence for a second there.”

Husk nodded. “That’s a pretty funny story, but, uh… I see why you don’t tell it to people. Hey, what makes _me_ so special, huh?”

What made Husk special? _Best to downplay,_ Angel thought. "Ya must got that bartender approachability thing about ya. Everyone spills ya their secrets, right?”

“Usually.”

“Don’t ya hate it?”

When Husk looked over, there were several emotions running across his face like characters from a Hanna-Barbera cartoon. “Yeah,” he said. “I bet yer clients talk to you.”

“Oh yeah.”

“Fukken people.”

Angel Dust crossed his arms, and stared at the bottle, now set between them. It was a clear dark green, like the briny ocean depths. “Some people ain’t so bad,” said Angel, trying to sound offhand. “For my pals, certain others, I’ll let ‘em talk. Be their therapist for a while, whateva. You’re prob’ly on that list.”

“Is there anything you won’t do?” Husk wondered aloud, looking at Angel’s mouth. The scotch whiskey was setting in at last.

Angel shuffled closer. “I won’t _tell,_ ” he half-joked. He was well aware of the stakes here; the wrong move or remark could reset weeks of progress. It had to be arch, ironic, joking...

“You _can’t_ tell,” Husk said, “I know yer little masturbation story. I got leverage.”

“True.”

A few seconds of held gaze, bleary-eyed though it was. “So. We doing this, Bugspray?”

Angel stared at him, sitting with the terror of uncertainty. Husk’s face was no indication of his level of seriousness. Angel Dust, pornstar, never bashful, found it difficult to speak. “Doin’... what?”

“What what?” An arched eyebrow, like it was obvious, and a quick flick on the ass. “Don’t tell me you’re lost fer words now.”

“Uh… no? Just…” He blinked rapidly. This had to be a trick. “Husker, you’re fuckin’ with me, right? Ya blood alcohol’s gotta be .30 at least.”

“Well, yeah, that’s a prerequisite,” Husk admitted, “even if it detracts from the, y’know… C’mon, all our fukken card games and shit, all the hanging out, smoking… I figured that was kinda the point.”

“Maybe.” Angel tucked his head between his long legs. “Shit. I didn’t wanna come on too strong.”

“Ah, shut the fuck up, asshole. We’re a coupla weird, broken, grown-ass fukken men. It was gonna happen one of these years,” Husk said, then gave his head a shake to let the bubbles rise to the top of his brain. “I’m in. Just… don’t be too kissy-kissy; I ain’t about that.”

Angel nodded slowly. A shame - he looked very kissable - but he’d take what he could get. What had Husk once said? That his capacity for love had died? Angel wasn’t so stupid to think he could turn that around in a year, or maybe ever. The two faced each other, as Angel slid out of his jacket for the millionth time. Husk took off his hat and bow-tie, the only clothes he really wore, and dropped them neatly on the step. Unlike Angel, he had a double coat; his guard hairs were so long that Angel’s hands got lost in them, and underneath the fur was soft and dense.

“Woah.”

“Yeah.” Husk buried his hands in Angel’s fluffy torso, and felt the firm muscles below the skin. He made a short, raggedy purring sound, then rocked back and pounced, knocking Angel off the step.


	31. Narcissistic Cannibal

The following week, Leslie took some space away from Alastor, and he was content to let her do it. He had grown better at sensing when he pushed his luck too far. However, the one time they had spoken, he found the chink in her armor, saying, “It was your idea, remember.”

It was. There was no debating that. 

“So you’re coming up with a plan?” she asked, to which he harrumphed good-naturedly and patted her head. Leslie took that as a yes. Her end of the bargain was done. Her horror-filled dreams got the best of her at night, usually with a horrible  **snap** that sprung her awake, but she refused to spend another moment of the day dwelling on the magnet thing. 

It wasn’t all bad. The free time gave her ample opportunity to reflect on her life choices, and she made a plan. Something to improve her tiny lot in this hellish life. Today, two Wednesdays after the incident, she booked a meeting with Vaggie and Charlie. Early in the morning, Leslie knocked and let herself into an office room on the fifth floor, close to the room with her Sardines hiding spot. Vaggie was already there, shuffling paperwork at a tiny little desk.

“Hi,” Leslie said. “Where’s...?”

“On her way. Do you want to wait?”

“Sure.” She took a seat. The two women sat and listened to the birds chirping by the window. Pleasantries were exchanged, and how was Leslie’s stomach today? Much better, thank you. Tweet tweet.

“And nobody’s been… bothering you?” Vaggie asked, scratching the spot beneath her eyepatch.

“Er-”

The door squeaked as Charlie entered, killing the conversation. She sat on the edge of the desk, rather than behind it like her girlfriend.

“OK,” Leslie said. Time for the pitch. “The Shawshank thing really impressed me the other day. I hadn’t seen it in years. Just inspiring, you know? My favorite was how Andy built the library out of nothing, helped out that kid.”

Charlie smiled so hard, she almost glowed. “Wholesome, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. Now, you guys have let me use a downstairs rooms to give dance lessons, which I really appreciate, by the way-”

“You’re welcome!”

“So I was thinking the hotel could employ me officially. Obviously combined with other things, dance could really help the rehabilitation of our guests, at least as much as the woodworking and shit. It’s good exercise, it encourages cooperation…”

Charlie and Vaggie exchanged a look. 

“If you need credentials, I have old recordings of me and students, fellow performers, et cetera,” Leslie added, “maybe an old resumé on my phone.”

“Oh no, that’s no problem,” Charlie assured her, “we’d actually considered it ourselves, just… Teaching the hotel guests might not go like you’re expecting. It’s not easy to lead a lesson for people who are reluctant to be there.”

“Yeah,” Vaggie said with a wan smile, “take it from us.” 

Leslie hasn’t thought of that, but she shrugged. “Got to be better than getting sexually harassed as a waitress.”

“Also, did you get yesterday’s email?”

“Not sure.”

“So, after the Shawshank thing, a few guests got… annoyed about the lengths of their stays,” Charlie admitted. “Bit of a backlash, I suppose. So, we decided to reduce the rent for anyone who’s been here over five months, and we can only apologize that it’s taking this long. What we’re doing is completely unprecedented, you know.”

Vaggie placed a supportive hand on the small of Charlie’s back. “Hey, don’t focus on that. Hun. It’s OK.”

Leslie felt a flicker of sympathy, but there was optimism too. Reduced rent payments were good news. Her dream of waking into Hades and telling Rapier to shove it was looking more likely, unless… “Does this mean you can’t  _ afford _ to employ me?”

“Maybe we could meet you in the middle,” Vaggie offered. “We employ you for some hours, and you volunteer others. That wouldn’t hurt your own chances of redemption, either. I know you’ve been helping with laundry, but-”

“Oh yeah, sure. Doing good for good’s sake. Just, I’d be leaving my day job to focus on this, so...”

“You need compensation for your time,” Charlie nodded. “Understood!”

The three discussed Leslie’s availability and how long it would take to create lesson plans for the following months. Leslie wondered why she hadn’t thought of this sooner. Promoting herself from a guest to a staff member could only mean good things for her soul. Since it was for the hotel, she’d be helping other sinners channel their energies into something worthwhile. She hoped they wouldn’t be too resistant. Leslie was still a low-powered demon, if she even had powers at all.  _ Time to invest in a leather jacket or something. _

o - o - o - o - o

Ginerva didn’t have to know yet, she decided. When they met before work, it was in Ginny’s room, the first time she’d visited, and Leslie was surprised to see the wall plastered with posters for emo and crunk-core bands. 

“It was the best band merch I could find this side of Hell,” her friend shrugged, feathers ruffling. “But hey, kind of nostalgic! Listened to these guys all the time as a teenager.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. Plus, me and all my friends would write fanfics about, like, Mikey and Gerard, all the kinky stuff they might get up to.”

“With each other?”

“Sometimes! Well… not specifically those two, they’re brothers, but…” Ginerva gave up on explaining and flapped her arms. “Ah, who cares. We all had a cringe phase at some point,” she said, wriggling into her work uniform. “I’m not ashamed of it.”

Leslie nodded, tactfully looked away as Ginerva finished dressing, and then volunteered some information of her own. Her teenaged phases were similar, but different; when her dream of becoming a scientist fell through, she became more interested in the occult. Telling Ginerva was the first time she had stepped out of the “broom-closet” since her adolescence.

“I think my friends and I just wanted to feel witchy and powerful,” she said. “Like, it was mostly dollar store candles and incense and shit, but my bestie Amanda also had this book of spells. So we hung out together after school, trying to make ourselves better at studying, or make our parents get off our backs. It sounds silly, but it _ felt _ like it was working. Placebo effect, I guess.”

Ginerva laughed, but not too meanly. “Hanging out with the girls,” she half-sang. “Did you guys get naked and stuff?”

“What? No! Like, the most we ever did was a stupid gathering in Mandy’s backyard. Like, the book’s instructions weren’t clear, but we made a salt circle and they got me to make up some dance that might summon-”

“Shush, shush! Listen!” said Ginerva. The two fell silent. They heard a low, rhythmic booming. “You hear that?”

Leslie nodded. It was faint, but getting clearer. A thudding bassline, coming from outside the hotel: someone was blasting dubstep from a distance. “That’s odd,” she said, glancing at her phone for the time. “It’s not even half four.”

Now ready for work, the two raced each other downstairs and escaped the building. Sure enough, they could see an open-top double-decker bus peeling along the road in their direction, full of demons who jumped in time to the music. Oddly, the first thing Leslie thought about was the imminent complaints from hotel guests, and one in particular; even the Radio Demon tended not to blast his tunes to  _ such _ an obnoxious degree. 

“The fuck is going on?” she said, turning to Ginerva, and Ginerva was bouncing up and down, waving to the bus. 

“WOOOOOO!” she screamed, loud enough that it could have peaked a microphone from six feet away. “Fuck. It.  _ Up, _ baby! This is my jam!”

_ Oh no, _ Leslie thought, staring at her friend.  _ You’re one of those.  _ They’d have to walk past the bus to get to work, as it was going the opposite way, but maybe she could calm Ginerva down.

“We’d better go,” she said, jerking her thumb down the road. “Don’t want to keep Rapier waiting.”

“Ah, fuck him!” Ginerva grabbed Leslie’s hands, hopping her around in a circle like children singing Ring Around The Rosie, and Leslie felt embarrassingly conspicuous, sure that the party bus demons were peering at them in disbelief. Her friend simply did not care. Possibly she was feeling starved of her usual vices from staying at the hotel. “Come on, Les, we’ve got a few minutes! Dance with me!”

“Fine, fine!” Leslie said, half-glaring. “Just for a minute.”

Still holding hands, Ginerva spun them in a tight circle: the centrifugal force was considerable, and Leslie held on for fear of going flying. Then they skidded to a stop and began leaping again. It was a bit rudimentary for Leslie’s tastes, but now was not the time to show off. There were definitely demons looking at them. She began dancing freestyle, away from Ginerva, to get a slightly better look. Somewhere on the upper deck was a music system, and standing behind it, working the controls, was a tallish figure with a television for his head. The face wasn’t discernible, because he was flashing vivid light displays across the screen. 

“Ayyyy, what’s going on, ya crazy bitches!”

Leslie didn’t see who said that, but Ginny grabbed her by the shoulders and WOOOO’ed again, speaking for the both of them. The song changed to something she half-recognized - Korn ft. Skrillex? - which got her friend even more turned up. The bus seemed to slow down. Oh, if Alastor was here, he’d throttle whoever was blasting this madness. 

Inexplicably, Ginerva had them doing the macarena, which did make her laugh. For a moment, Leslie envied her ability to have fun at the drop of a hat, without feeling ashamed of herself - until Ginerva started gyrating performatively against her leg.

“The fuck are you-?”

“Trying to, fucking… make them let us on the bus. Just play along!”

“We’re going to  _ work! _ ” Leslie exclaimed, not that it made a blind bit of difference. She spun away from Ginerva, awkwardly clutching her forehead, and snuck a look at the bus. This time, the TV demon had a face: brightly colored with cyan and vermilion, his two-dimensional features curling into a sneer. Maintaining eye contact, he increased the volume, and Leslie pressed her ears against her head. Fucking hell! Now she’d be dealing with tinnitus all night. Alternating guitar riffs and electronic wubs pierced the air, almost loud enough to make the kerb loosen from their sidewalk and tango into the road. The bus came to a full stop with a hiss of the brakes. The chorus rang through the streets.

“WOOOOOO!”

Woo indeed. Trying and failing to tie her ears under her chin, Leslie deliberated her next step. Could she book it down the road to Hades, or should she dance on the move, so as not to encourage nearby ravers to throw their multicolored beads at her? The bass was stabbing holes in her chest with its sheer force. She gave up and let it in, flinging herself around and banging her head. Self-consciousness channeled into something else, the chaos and lyricism of the dance. She was filled with memories of her state of trance from the danceathon… surely that could never happen again?

Leslie was just making the transition into furious Charleston steps when she heard a scream, then a rush of air with something solid behind it. Something came in from the side - a giant coal-colored thing - smacking Leslie to the ground. Her face and hands grazed against the sidewalk.

There was the sound of thudding metal and glass breaking. The music stopped. When she looked over, the bus was on its side, sundry occupants tossed like skittles. The black thing was, in fact, an enormous tentacle, and together with its siblings, came flailing from a hole in the ground. Leslie looked for Ginerva and spotted her lying on the sidewalk. 

“You!” Alastor stood before the hotel, smiling with anger. “Take your infernal pap  _ off _ the premises!” He was pointing his cane at the TV demon, who sat up and touched his face to be sure the screen wasn’t cracked. Leslie looked from one to the other.  _ ‘You’ _ . Old enemies then.

“Just passing through, old man!” the TV demon grinned. “Go take a warm salt bath or something!”

Though Alastor didn’t verbally respond, another tentacle smashed down on the bus. Leslie got up, going the long way back around to fetch Ginny. A flash of electricity stung one of the tentacles, making both women squeal and duck instinctively. 

“There are easier ways to pick a fight with me, Vox!” Alastor called, and was suddenly flanked by shadows. They took out instruments and played some brassy swing, making Leslie smile incredulously.

“Hey!” said Ginerva, crawling over. “Let’s split already!” Clasping each other by the shoulders, they crawled by the quarreling demons. Leslie got a look at Alastor from the back: the disturbances in the atmosphere were doing strange things to his hair, making it flutter in some places and stand up in others from the static. Leslie felt it herself, in the fur on her arms. She was transfixed, watching Alastor stand still amid the chaos, and the tentacles he controlled with barely a movement.

Vox picked up the music again, blasting it from his inner hi-fi. It was more dubstep, but the same measures and tempo as the shadow band’s tune. Almost like a remix. The ground around them rumbled. Now at a safe distance, Leslie and Ginerva sprinted from the scene of the fight and barely looked back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I’ve had some kind of flu for a while but doing much better. I’ve just updated the chapter and probably going back to change a few minor plot details to fit the canon. Mainly these two.
> 
> \- Fat Nuggets is some kind of demon pet instead of snatched from the living world (evidenced by his appearance in the Addict music video)  
> \- VoxTube, not DoomTube. I like the pun, but Vox slapping his name on all major media streaming services in Hell makes sense. 
> 
> If y’all are interested, I’m making some chapter images for this story. They’ll be posted to Wattpad and to my Twitter, @Hazbian1, where I also post Hazbin Hotel fanart and some other stuff from time to time! My commissions are open if you feel like supporting me. 
> 
> Hope you’re well and stay safe! 🙂


	32. Return To Hades

“That was fucking crazy,” Ginerva gasped, half a mile later. 

Leslie nodded. “Agreed.” She was impressed with herself for running so long with barely a sweat broken; the morning jogs were paying off. 

They scurried along and finally burst into Hades, only five minutes late, but Rapier wasn’t happy. He had them working almost immediately, smacking them with a dish cloth as they carried their first orders from the kitchen. Working on autopilot, and ignoring her ringing ears, Leslie remembered what she’d seen of the demon called Vox. His blue to Alastor’s red, his taste for electronica and broken beats… no wonder they came to blows so quickly. They did have something in common, she thought, in the way of a sly, sadistic grin. Maybe it was just an overlord thing. 

She caught glimpses of Channel 666 between tables, actually showing the progression of the fight, and Leslie did some busywork by the bar, in order to spectate. They continued their musical battle as the sun dipped, and then a tentacle snaked out and grabbed Vox around his middle. Suspended in the air, arms pinned, he scowled and made his screen flash white. With a surge of blue lightning, he shocked the tentacle, the cameraman was knocked over-

BANG!

Every electronic item in the restaurant surged and blew out, startling the patrons. Ginerva dropped a glass and Douglas, sleeping at the bar, jolted awake.

“The fuck is going on?” said Rapier, storming into view with his cup of joe. He slammed the mug down on the pool table. “One of you bastards fucking with my equipment? I’ll take that one-arm bandit away, I swear to God.”

“It was that prick Vox,” said the barman, gently shooing Leslie. “He had a tantrum again.”

Rapier wrung his hands as a few kitchen staff members emerged, complaining that the griddle had died. He demanded they finish off any half-cooked meals some other way, then snapped his fingers at Leslie. “Hello? Earth to Lesbo?”

“Yes?”

“You’re gonna bust your ass getting this stuff to the customers before it gets cold. Got it?”

She sighed and nodded. On her way to the kitchen, she saw Ginerva grab Rapier’s coffee mug and spit in it, which she often did when his back was turned. They carried on as normal. Robbed of the usual musical and televisual ambiance, the customers grew bored and sullen. One of them decided to entertain himself by tripping Leslie, then, pretending to help her up, placed his hand way too far up her leg. Disgusted, she reflexively elbowed his ribs.

“Ow! You fucking bitch!”

“It was an accident!” she called, but too late; he was flagging down Rapier. Her boss, already stressed, gave her a verbal lashing that only increased her anger. When he yelled, the blood rushed into his porous face, giving the impression of pasta sauce stuck under the skin. Across the room, Ginerva gave Leslie a conflicted expression: sympathetic, but also ‘don’t quit on the spot and leave me on my own’. For her sake, Leslie sucked it up.

 _Imagine quitting on the spot, though!_ she thought. _You could throw your uniform at his stupid head, tell him to fuck off…_ It sure was tempting, but no, she couldn’t. She’d wait until Friday night to quit, after she had been paid, so Rapier wouldn’t decide to hold onto it.

o - o - o - o - o

After work, Leslie shut herself in her room and knocked the inside of the door. She wanted to see how the fight came out, and Alastor consented to let her in. He lounged on the smaller couch to the left of the office, bouncing his leg to music from the record player (Louis Armstrong, only a smidge louder than normal). An unpleasant scent met Leslie’s nose.

“Are you smoking?” she asked in disbelief. “You don’t smoke.”

His elated grin was glowing through a newly-blown smoke cloud. “You wouldn’t begrudge me a victory cigarette, would you?”

“You beat Vox, then.”

“I’d say so, since he left the area! Can’t stand the man.”

Leslie stood, reluctant to meet the cloud. “I hate smoking.”

“Then don’t do it,” he said. “Very poor quality in a woman, anyway!”

She sighed. “You and your fucking…” A thought came to her as she approached, taking a seat. “Wait, shouldn’t you be interested in the social graces of smoking? The differences in how men and women do it?”

“I don’t follow.”

So, to demonstrate, she took his cigarette to hold ‘femininely’ with an open palm. It was an action she’d learned from old movies and body language guidebooks: by keeping the wrist limp, or exposing the inner bend of that wrist, one could say ‘Here I am, a sophisticated lady who might just be attracted to you’.

“Yes, I’ve seen that before,” Alastor stated, “mostly from Mimzy, but it’s still a filthy habit for women, and in my view the flirting aspect makes it worse! You forget, I don’t much like to be flirted with!”

“Oh.” Leslie gave him back the cigarette. “Fair enough.” For a brief, quiet moment, she heard the hot jazz, smelled the smoke, and imagined the two of them sitting cozily in a prohibition-era speakeasy. Alastor produced a glass of cognac and she did a panicked double take. _Stop reading my mind!_

“If we’re celebrating, you might as well have some way to do it,” Alastor said, taking a sip with his little finger raised before handing it off to her. “I hear we have a new member of staff.”

She smirked. “Really? How nice. Do give him or her my best wishes.” A musical interlude of call-and-response between trumpet and piano. 

“You know what this means, of course!” he said.

“What?”

“Technically I’m your superior,” he said, then quickly, “your boss, rather,” as if to imply he was superior to her at all times. 

“Wait. Shit.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, “the only times you should answer to me are the usual meetings, when you trot so willingly to my office,” he began to drabble, “like Persephone came to Hades!”

“She quit my group months ago,” Leslie interjected. “I never saw her again, much less at work.”

“I mean the mythical figures of Persephone and Hades,” he said. “She, the goddess of spring and flowers. You, in rabbit-form, a creature of the spring! Hades, lord of the underworld, and myself… well!” Plucking the glass from her hands, Alastor drank to that self-aggrandizing sentiment. “The situations are not so different.”

“That’s romantic and all,” Leslie countered, “but I’m pretty sure Persephone was raped.”

The briefest pause. “Touché,” he said, finishing the drink. Leslie wasn’t concerned by his tone; he was merely annoyed his analogy failed. For a voodoo-wielding, former cannibalistic serial killer, Alastor was oddly principled about the kind of man he _wasn’t;_ ergo, he needed her to show some small willing in their encounters. Even when he proposed the most awful scenarios, even through all his persuasions, the door was left ajar for Leslie. She could always abandon a meeting. 

How long had it been since they’d really enjoyed each other’s company? Quite a while, she thought. First the hellpox outbreak, then the magnet situation. Both events had put some distance between them. She watched his lips as he drew from the cigarette, finishing it, and then Alastor flicked it across the room. It landed with a ping in his wastepaper basket, and his audience applauded. The little bow he took in his seat made Leslie chuckle. 

The record continued to play, with a little scatting this time, and they found themselves tapping toes in near-unison. Leslie smiled, feeling a nice and silly mood creeping up on her.

“Dig that sweet jazz, daddy-o,” she said in Satchmo’s voice. She stopped, glancing at Alastor. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to disrespect.” His drink refilled in the interim silence, so she borrowed it, taking a sip. “Alright, Hades, let’s cut this one short,” she said, standing. “I have a funny feeling you don’t want to play with me any more.”

Giving back the glass, Leslie turned to leave, when Alastor got to his feet. Spinning her to face him, stooping to her level, he kissed her so hard he might’ve bruised both of their teeth. She wasn’t scared. It had been too long. _Creature of the spring, lord of the underworld._ Damn it, his poetry was catching. She pulled him to the carpet, dying to touch his skin, to feel the exquisite heat of porcelain taken too soon from the kiln. 

She felt his hands on her, pinching and kneading like a butcher appraising some animal for slaughter. Why was this a turn on? She didn’t know. Objectification? It simply felt like Alastor was obsessed with her many layers, each more tightly woven than the last, and wanted to probe still further. She felt the same with him! Astoundingly hot as he was on the surface, whatever knot of evil waited at Alastor’s core was surely fiery enough to melt stone. Encouraged by his ash-tasting tongue, Leslie imagined him opening up, pouring lava down her throat. 

The playful nipping grew steadily harder and harder until Alastor asked if he could bite ‘softly’. Knowing what that meant, she felt suddenly cold, but didn’t want to end the encounter. Verbally she consented, then hissed loudly when his teeth broke the skin. Blood beaded at the site; Alastor drank. He did this for some time, while Leslie endured and thought about volcanos some more. When it was over, he healed her with one hand, elegantly picking fur tufts from his teeth with the other. 

She sat up. “Where’s the brandy?”

He retrieved the glass and watched her drink, lying on his side. God, he was tall. Most of Alastor’s height was in his long legs, but even with Leslie’s recent growth, they had to contend with 25 inches of height difference. She scooched up to touch his velvet antlers as he made remarks about her body. 

“You’re much fitter than other ladies I’ve known.”

 _Is that good?_ Leslie copied him, propping her head up on one elbow. “How many ladies _have_ there been,” she asked, “in your hundred-or-so years? Like, at least semi-serious affairs.”

“Three, including you.”

“That’s it?”

“I don’t count the ones I killed.”

She nodded, trying not to think about it. “Uh-huh. But three… I guess that’s a nice number.”

“How many for you?” he asked.

“Ladies?” Alastor raised a quizzical eyebrow that made her laugh. “No, but really though, uhh… I guess three guys before you, one of them being Karl.”

He hummed slightly with static. “And we both know how that turned out.”

“Yeah, that fatal car crash really sealed the deal.”

“What went wrong, exactly?”

“I was crossing the road to get banana bread-”

“With the marriage, young lady.”

“I don’t know, Al. We were drifting a-fucking-part. He got a job at a different studio and had to move, so I stopped seeing him as much. He disappeared constantly, we argued over the stupidest things, ‘cause I was kind of being a bitch… and I think he missed his old lifestyle.”

“Excuse me, a different studio?”

“He used to manage the studio where I taught and rehearsed my dancers. That’s how we met, so…”

“You worked under him?” Alastor confirmed, with the tricky smile of one who has new fodder for roasting. “Leslie has a type!”

“Oi, no I don’t. You’re not my-” Leslie said, then remembered. “No, _Charlie_ is my boss.”

He cackled. “Call it whatever you want, darling, Karl and I have something in common!”

“He’s seen parts of me you haven’t.”

“But I will,” he promised. “Why him in the first place?”

“It started so well!” she lamented. “He was this gorgeous guy, relaxed, great sense of humor… and he always fancied me, always told me how pretty I was.”

“All fine motives for claiming Mr. Nicholson as your own, I’m sure.”

“Mangwiro.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Nicholson is my maiden name; I kept it,” she explained. “The decision was mutual, it was fine. Actually streamlined the process… and I guess it would’ve helped with separating too.” Leslie pressed her lips together. “Shall we get off the topic?”

Alastor, too, was quiet for a moment, his static falling to a low-frequency buzz. 

“Hey.”

He turned his head, as though disturbed from a thought, not yet fully formed. Then he nodded, rolling atop her again. She pulled him in for a deep kiss before wriggling down, trying to align them at the hips. Naturally he resisted, coming up on his hands and knees. 

“Oh no, Leslie. Not today.”

“Ugh! How can you stand it?”

In answer, he flashed that crooked smile and stroked the side of her face. Leslie understood; he found more pleasure in winding her up for now. She moved his arm and rolled away.

“How do I compare to Karlton, in other matters?” Alastor asked.

Leslie was in no mood to stroke his ego. “He was kinder than you,” she said into the carpet, “more modern. Probably better endowed, though I’m extrapolating from incomplete data. What else? Er, I loved him. That’s a big difference.”

“You still can’t see yourself loving me?” he teased.

Leslie got up, skin crawling from the remark. “God, why would you even want that?”

“Your falling for me is the ultimate conquest,” he stated, “even _if_ it is blind delusion on your part.”

“Never going to happen. No offense, but I’m not an idiot with cement for brains.”

“Well, then. As agreed, we shall never love each other!”

With an elegant curtsy, she turned and left. She closed the door to, almost completely, but not quite. From the other side, Leslie heard him walk and dial a number on the rotary phone. Another annoying example of old appliances with their own sets of issues, she thought. _Who has time to wait for the wheel thing to reset after every digit?_

“Hello,” he said. “Never mind how; you weren’t answering at work. … They were fine, this is about the other one. … Yes. No, that’s wrong. Quite erroneous on my part.” The smile was still audible in Alastor’s voice: he’d had a lovely day. “Do you have a pen? Mike, Alf-” There was a pause. “Close the door, Leslie.”

She squeaked and did as he commanded.


	33. Play Some Chuck Berry!

Leslie enjoyed quitting her job. She’d never done so in such dramatic fashion, but then again, she’d never had a boss as loathsome as Mr. Rapier. On Friday night, just as planned, she finished her shift, sticking around for fifteen minutes while she waited for Bossman to get his act together. She grabbed something impulsively from behind the bar, then circled back around, hiding the thing under her coat as she got behind Ginerva in the queue for the back office. She watched Rapier review her timesheet, disincluding breaks the staff had been denied from taking, and she focused on his horrible bulbous nose and squirrely mustache. Finally he paid her out. 

“Thank you,” she beamed. “I quit.”

“You what?”

“I quit!” she repeated, then took out his beloved air horn, the one he kept to bully customers, and deployed it right next to his head. Rapier’s eyebrows left his face as he jumped and fell from his swivel chair. A relatively harmless ‘fuck you’ to her boss, but it gave her no small amount of satisfaction. Laughing, she gave him a few more blasts before linking Ginny’s arm and running from the establishment. 

It was a little premature, perhaps, to flounce away before she taught her first official class at the hotel, but what was the point in waiting? Why should she endure one more day of overworked, underpaid hell when she didn’t have to?

Alastor enjoyed hearing about it as they sat on his couch the next night, even making her re-enact the event with an empty water-pistol. He then showed her the newspaper (one of many media outlets Vox controlled), where a front page article detailed his fight with Alastor.  _ Sparks fly between feuding overlords _ , read the headline. Below it was a photograph of the two demons: Alastor wielding tentacles, and Vox making the air sizzle with blue lightning. Of course, there were no signs of Leslie or Ginerva in the photo, since they’d left before the reporters arrived.  _ Just as well, _ she thought.

Leslie skimmed the text. “OK, but this goes on about you, like, at length,” she said, then quoth the third paragraph aloud, “‘Once again we see the classic game of cat-and-mouse -- or is it cat-and-cat? -- play out on the streets of Hell. Alastor, literally and abstractly red,’ whatever  _ that _ means, ‘was seen standing defiantly even as furious electrical winds tousled his hair and coattails. The narrow, mischievous eyes and glowing grin he saved for his adversary could be seen for miles. Perhaps this riveting overlord considers Vox less of a nuisance than he lets on.’”

“He wishes.”

She put down the paper with a scrunch. “That’s kind of creepy! And it’s definitely bad journalism, I mean... Did Vox secretly write the article? Because it feels like he did.”

“Wouldn't be surprised,” Alastor sighed. “He has always been a  _ bête noire, _ frankly, but his agitational mood has increased since he and Valentino dissolved their affair.”

“Oh, so he’s-? Oh.”

“At the very least, you girls dancing allowed me to get the drop on him… not that I need distractions in general.”

Alastor momentarily left the couch to put on some music. As he did so, Leslie used her phone to take a photo of the article, and then snapped one of Alastor before he could react. His face in the photo appeared as a glitchy black-and-red mess. Now that she looked again at the image on the paper, his visage was scrambled there too. 

“Get rid of that,” Alastor warned, pointing a finger.

“What, I can’t have one photo of you?”

“Not in the office. Erase it.”

He was serious. Taking advantage of his tech-illiteracy, she deleted the photo from her gallery before his eyes, planning to retrieve it from the ‘Recently deleted’ folder tomorrow. Alastor seemed satisfied, sitting down again. They got to ‘playing’ as usual, and all was well until Alastor unhooked Leslie’s bra, causing a handful of small change to come spilling out.

“Er.”

Leslie panicked. “Oh shit, you won.”

That sent him into a fit of giggles from which he did not recover. Leslie called it quits, making a note to sew some real pockets inside her clothes, so this would never happen again.

o - o - o - o - o

Two days later, Leslie worked with Charlie and Vaggie to iron out her timetable, and it was posted to the guests in an email, along with Leslie’s contact details. Every step of the process felt surreal to her: seeing herself on the timetable, getting signups by text, wondering how many would change their minds when the time came. She prepared for the job of guiding a room of people, looking for mistakes in their form individually (tricky, even for small groups), and learning how hard to push them. 

By the night before, her first class had seven signups, and she expected a few to drop out; in the end, they didn’t.

On the day, Leslie waited inside the studio while the participants filtered in - some women, mostly men - and hung awkwardly around the corners of the room. Kain and Crymini were among those who joined the first session; both took off their leather jackets in unison, and flashed grins at each other, in a way that led Leslie to assume they had fucked once. There was a new water cooler in the corner which Leslie requested, both to give people something to do and to provide adequate hydration. So far, people were using it fine, but she didn’t want to attract attention to it - any antipathetic students might attack the cooler in hopes of being banned.

Speaking of which, Charlie and Vaggie were right about the vibe she got from her fellow guests. Many of them cast her an intimidating gaze, as if to imply they were not here for this hippie shit. Leslie still had faith in her profession, but knew she’d need a tailored approach. None of the happy, zappy, “Work those arms!” encouragements; they simply wouldn’t accept them. Neither could she give the impression that she was as reluctant to be there as they were. It wasn’t true and it would make them want to leave even more. Leslie had an important balance to strike here.

“Hi,” she said, approachable, but not patronizingly so, “I’m Leslie, maybe you know me from around. Uh… if anyone has any rabbit jokes, I offer now as the time to get ‘em out of your system.”

Mostly silence, as if designating a time for telling jokes had robbed them of their fun, apart from one sinner who asked, “You a rampant rabbit then?”

Leslie feigned stupidity. “Sorry, I don’t get it?” she said, which was bending the truth.

“Uh… it’s a kind of vibrator.”

“And what’s that?”

Leslie was confused by her own retort; luckily, it had the same effect on this guy, giving her the chance to press on.

“So dancing is one of the best forms of exercise I know,” she told the class, “and I can tell you guys stay in shape. Makes sense down here, in case trouble comes along, right? But there’s more to fitness than just lifting, bodyweight exercises, whatever you might be doing. Dance is good for cooperation, stamina, agility, and so on: it’s comparable to fight choreography, so you can… think of it like that.” A few uncertain glances back and forth. “It’s also a good way, I’ve found, to blow off steam. Like some days, you don’t just wanna sit with your anger-”

Charcoal sighed. “Can we skip past the speech for once?”

Leslie stared him down, then bent to tighten her shoelaces. “Fine,” she said, “we can skip it. Just, show of hands, who’s taking this because you think it’ll be easy and you won’t have to try?”

A couple of them raised their arms.

“Well, you  _ are _ going to have to do shit. I don’t want time wasters, and I don’t want people wrecking it for whoever  _ is _ trying,” Leslie told them. “Like Vaggie’s said, I can’t make you stay. It’s not high school, so… you know where the door is.”

Only one of the arm-raisers actually shrugged and left, letting the door creak and slam behind him. The six remaining stood there with their arms folded. 

“OK,” Leslie said with a hearty exhale. “So, who’s had dancing experience before?” About half the room answered yes. “Right,” she said, “so today we’ll just do some warm-ups and a few easy steps. If you want, you can do a more advanced variant of the same step, which I’ll also show you. Just focus on yourself - or me, if that helps.” Her laces tied, Leslie straightened up and took out her phone. 

“Can we have some proper tunes at least?” Crymini asked, flicking her tail.

Leslie looked up. “Define proper?” she said, then realized her mistake.

“I dunno, like Deftones?”

“You can’t dance to that, ya fuckin’ moll! Nah, play some Chuck Berry!”

Kain gave that demon an incredulous look. “God, how old are you?” he said. 

“Give us some dancehall!”

After that, Leslie had to speak against the growing flurry of musical requests. She told them to contact her after class to explain their preferred style of music, all the time doubting she could keep them all happy this way, or fit such disparate genres to singular dance styles.

“Today we’ll stick with my playlist,” she said. “Just follow my lead.”

“What happened to the mirror?” someone called out. 

Leslie pressed her lips together.  _ They’re just stalling,  _ she thought.  _ Be patient. _ “That was me,” she replied nonchalantly. “Slammed some imp’s head against it when they acted up in another class. Kain, boots off please,” she added. “They’re marking the floor.”

The class was a mixed bag. Some of the students had two left feet (or three, or four), which required adjustment. Kain did everything with dripping sarcasm, and another demon refused to even follow the steps. Instead she stood at the back, doing jazz hands and ankle-shatteringly heavy tap dance. Leslie expected that behavior from a high-schooler forced into dance lessons by their parents, but not from a grown woman. After three reprimands, Leslie showed her the door. She felt bad doing it, but this person was a class disruption, and she had to set an example.

At the very least, she reflected later, nobody got violent or creepy with her today. Could it have something to do with the lengths of their stays at the hotel? These were all people she knew from teaching sessions, or the other hotel classes. If they weren’t new, or hadn’t checked out by now, they must be a tiny bit serious about redemption. 


	34. One Of The Gang

“Then he fell off the chair, and Les fucking blasted him again! Like two or three times,” Ginerva recounted to Angel Dust. 

It was a warm August night, and the three friends were sharing a bottle of contraband sangria in Leslie’s room, perched with varying degrees of difficulty on the bed. Ginerva was in the middle, and Angel, sitting at the foot end, had to let his legs dangle off the mattress. As for Leslie (for whom the hangout had been a surprise), she kept herself pressed firmly against her pillows; the one she was most friendly with had a shoelace tied around it, cinching the middle. God forbid anyone see her handiwork. Angel, for one, would know exactly why she’d done it. 

“Pretty fuckin’ ballsy, Les,” he admitted. “Wish I could do that to my boss.”

“Yeah, just a shame she didn’t give notice,” Ginerva said, hogging the alcohol. “Rapier’s got the rest of us picking up the slack.”

Leslie sat up (carefully, not to expose Pillow Alastor). “Urgh! He sucks. But no, I wasn’t going to give him notice. You think he’d extend  _ me _ that courtesy if  _ I _ was being fired?”

Angel Dust nodded. 

“Yeah, I guess,” Ginerva grumbled. “Just looking forward to your replacement, is all.” She took a hearty swig, then had a thought with the neck of the bottle still in her mouth. “Hm! Oh, Les, Angie... meant to ask you something.”

“Uh, yeah, sure.”

“About Kain from our group,” she went on. “Is he single, do you know?”

“Oh.”  _ Wow, _ Leslie thought. 

“Technic’lly he is,” Angel said, “though I’ve seen him pick up a lotta ladies that come through here.”

“Ooh. So I could be one of them.”

“Why Kain, though?” Leslie had to ask.

Ginerva shrugged, sliding down against the wall. “I mean, he’s got brains,” she said, “he’s got that fucking Irish accent that gives me literal gooseflesh. He’d definitely do, I just wanted to check what his deal is. You’ve both been in the group forever, so…”

“Ah right,” Leslie said. “Yeah, knock yourself out, I guess.”

“If ya don’t mind gettin’ redeemed a little slower,” Angel added with a wink.

Ginerva grinned, then turned back to Leslie. “We’ve got to get somebody for you. I know a nightclub near my old place called FoxyLove. It is so friendly, really cool.”

“Huh,” said Angel Dust, and Leslie caught the bemused blip on his face, “interestin’ choice of venue.”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s  _ mostly _ gay, but they let anyone in… which must make it harder to scope another gay person, now I think about it.”

Leslie sat up. “Ginster…”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t think I’m gay, do you?”

Ginerva smirked, then didn’t. “Uh… are you not?”

Apparently this was hilarious to Angel Dust; he doubled over, wheezing with laughter. Leslie dismissed his reaction.

“Oh shut up. Wait, so…” she turned back to Ginerva, “you thought I was a lesbian this whole time?”

“It’s nothing bad!” insisted Ginerva, getting up. “I don’t mind! Just, Rapier was calling you Lesbo, and I thought it was a personal attack, which is partly why I spit in his coffee so much-”

“Aww.” 

“-you’re welcome. Plus you’re sporty, you hang out with The Gang a lot, so I just kinda…”

“The what now?”

“Y’know, from the hotel. Angie, Charlie, Vaggie, Creepy Guy, maybe Husk-”

“Definitely Husk,” Angel said.

“-the kinda, OG, fucking, LGB… am I making this worse? Ah, fuck!”

Leslie couldn’t help it, and she joined Angel Dust in laughing. “But I know I’ve mentioned Karlton before… right? You know who he is,” she said, and they both shrugged. “No? Have I never talked about him?”

“Not to me, sis.”

“Maybe?” said Angel, “name’s not ringin’ any bells.”

“Old squeeze, was he?”

“Yeah, ‘til death did us part, I guess,” said Leslie, and gave a final chuckle. “Wow. Well, sorry for not bringing that up. I was trying not to mix work and personal life for a while.”

Ginerva nodded sheepishly and put the bottle down. She excused herself to go to the restroom, leaving Leslie and Angel Dust alone for a minute. 

“Lesbo…!” he snickered.

“Did you say ‘Definitely Husk’?” Leslie asked him.

“Mighta done,” he said, borrowing the sangria, and the final dregs of laughter dried up. “Fuck it, I told Cherri, I can tell you. But it’s, ahhhh, kinda complicated. See, we’ve…”

“What?”

“Usually in the cellar, we’ve bin havin’ these quasi-hookups-”

“Oh my God, finally!”

“No, but we never get around to anythin’. I mean  _ never. _ He rubs his face in my chest like it’s catnip, and then lays off because he ‘respects me too much’? Then we both start cryin’ about all the shit that’s goin’ wrong in our lives. I dunno how ta fuckin’ feel about that. Poor guy don’t know what day it is.”

Leslie sat back, feeling the shoelace against her spine. “Oh,” she said. “So he’s drunk when you hook up?”

“Yeah, but there’s more to it somehow. He initiates it, but...” Angel trailed off, lost in his own puzzled thoughts. Selfishly, Leslie took a second to remember the last time  _ she’d _ experienced such a thing: this mutual, organic opening-up to a friend or lover. It had been a long time. “Well, whateva,” he concluded. “You’re right, it’s still progress. I just… fuck, sorry. Shouldn’t even be talkin’ about this.”

She leaned forward, patting his knee and reaching for some personal wisdom which could help him. “I know it’s hard,” she mumbled, “when there’s one of you who wants more than-”

Lucky for her, Ginerva breezed back into the room, drying her hands on her overpatterned leggings, before Leslie could say too much with an empathetic statement. As they made room for Ginny on the bed, Angel Dust plugged his mouth closed with the sangria. He was fairly quiet for the rest of the night. There was something in his eyes, though: a little pain, a little melancholy, and (perhaps she imagined it) a little suspicion.

o - o - o - o - o

Up in the living world, on an uncomfortably hot summer night, the IMP staff (Blitzo included) began pawing through their target’s personal belongings, gathering intel for Shitty Phone Guy. Per his instructions, they searched for evidence of wrongdoing, as well as a connection to the previous target. 

Pretty soon, they found a pistol hanging out in a drawer of the coffee table. Interesting, but not enough to report without further info. 

Blitzo parked himself on the shag carpet and helped Moxxie and Millie to rifle through a shoebox of old paperwork. Loona stalked the apartment, following her nose. One of the benefits of being a hellhound was the acute sense of smell, she’d confided in Blitzo; it was just a shame about the fleas.

“I don’t understand why we were lookin’ for the dirt on that girl,” Millie pondered aloud, a little sadly. “She seemed so nice.”

“Yeah,” Moxxie conceded. “Besides which, she’s already in Hell; Shitty Phone Guy could’ve asked her this crap himself. Mr. I’m-So-Intimidating, Look-At-Me.”

Blitzo nodded, feeling the urge to schtick. “Right? Someone needs to tell that old bastard to take matters into his own hands. You know what he asked me the other day?”

“What’s that, boss?”

“He wanted to know how often our murdered targets become a problem for the clients once they get to Hell.”

“Shit. Nobody else has asked that.”

“Well, more to the point, he thinks we keep the numbers on that kind of info? Like I have time to run check-ins on whatever delinquent fuckwits we get paid to murder.”

Millie shrugged, flipping a curl of hair out of her eyelashes. “Don’t worry about it, sir. He can probably handle the guy. That’s what I’d have told him!”

“Exactly!” Blitzo conceded, tossing aside some unopened mail. “Phone Guy can handle a junkie, I think. He’ll drop into Hell, crawl five feet to the nearest vending machine and that’ll be that!”

From across the hall, Loona barked and waved something carelessly in the air. Nobody could tell what it was from this distance, so she huffed and brought it over. 

“Get a load of this,” she said, tossing it to Blitzo. He caught it and examined the item, lazily wrapped in crepe paper. “Who gives a fucking spoon as a present?”

They had a brief chuckle at the thing - wooden, store-bought and carved in some weird Celtic design. Then Millie gave a squeak when she saw the card - addressed to ‘Jordy Bee’, in the shape of a glittering number five.

“I don’t think this means five months,” Moxxie said knowingly, catching on.

“What if it’s for some five-year-old brat? Like a birthday card,” Blitzo pondered. They did give strange gifts to kiddos these days, all artisanal sweaters and pepper-stuffed cruet jars. However, upon reading the inside of the card, he changed his mind. “Christ alive. Guess not, unless he’s the most shameless pedophile I’ve ever seen.”

Moxx and Mill had a read. “Oh wow.”

“Well, this seems slimey enough,” Blitzo said, clapping his hands together, “but let’s keep going. One of you wanna check the bathroom?”

Duly, Moxx got up, still clutching the card, frowning at the message inside as he exited the room. Blitzo remembered the last time he’d bought an anniversary present - for Loonie, in this case - and how poorly it was received. Maybe his taste in gifts was rotten, but at least it wasn’t  _ wooden spoon _ rotten. In fact, the only thing he could-

“BAAAH!”

From around the corner, Moxxie screeched and grunted as he was kicked into the wall. The occupant was home, a tallish guy in a band shirt and jeans. Millie emitted a blood-curdling war cry and launched herself at him. 

“Don’t you dare hurt my hubby!”

Loona and Blitzo exchanged a look, shrugged, and went after the homeowner too. He was wasted as hell, and armed with a glass soap dispenser with nasty sharp edges. Even in his current surprised state, he was determined to get past them, into the living room. Looking for the firearm. Blitzo was thwocked over the head with that soap dispenser, but shortly thereafter he tripped the guy, then jumped on top of him as he squirmed. Millie got her hit in, smashing a mallet against his head and fingers. 

“Get off me! Get off! I’m not ready to go!”

This was a fairly common response to being rushed by imps, in Blitzo’s experience. He let Moxx do the honors, moving over just enough for him to deliver the killing shot, since he had been kicked like a football moments earlier. The four of them gathered around the body with triumphant grins.

“Wait,” Loona said, scratching herself with the spoon, “we  _ were  _ supposed to kill this one, right?”

“I... presume so?” Blitzo said. “Phone Guy wanted the dirt on him for a reason, no? An excuse to have him executed.”

Millie frowned. “But did he  _ say _ kill the guy?”

“Probably. Maybe.”

“I think you should call and make sure, sir,” said Moxxie, putting down his weapon.

“Alright, alright! In the morning.”

“Now, sir. This guy will arrive in Hell any minute; the client will want to have eyes on all the drop zones.”

“Hm. Tell you what I’ll do!”

Blitzo took out his mobile and found the Phone Guy in his contacts, giving him a call. It was answered after three rings. 

“Good evening.”

“Hey, how’s it hanging, Bossman? So here’s what we found out. I think you’ll be interested to hear this.” Once Blitzo was done sharing the scandalous deets, he paused, expecting the go-ahead to murder their client. The result was an awkward silence with a little interference on the line. “So, uh… yeah that’s the long and little of it, uh… You want us to…?”

“Yes, go ahead and deliver any physical evidence to my postal box, as before. Thank you.”

“No, thank  _ you! _ Also…” Blitzo faltered, considering the consequences of the client finding out about the murder. Better to ask favors now than later. “If you want to make my little day, sir, you could leave a nice review for us on the website! That helps us out a bunch.” 

There was crackling on the other end. “Website?”

“Yeah. You know what that is, right?”

The client didn’t appreciate being condescended to; his tone of voice became churlish. “I will look into it when the sun is up. Goodnight, Mr. Blitzo.”

He hung up. Moxxie was tired and exasperated, dropping his gun to cringe into his hands. “Sir, you  _ didn’t tell him! _ ”

“What? Nothing bad’s gonna happen. Like he needs to keep this sack of shit alive anyway!” Blitzo looked at the crumpled corpse, humming thoughtfully. “Uh… but just in case…”

“Oh, sir!”

“Just in case… let’s make this look a bit more like an accident.”


	35. Truth Will Out

As weeks passed, Leslie grew busier; if she wasn’t devising new choreography, she was clicking through VoxTube to find Chuck Berry singles, or whatever the fuck her students preferred. Then there was all the regular exercise she did, to keep up with the demands of the job. Yes, waitressing was physical, since she was on her feet all day, but it wasn’t quite the same thing. 

She had several groups throughout the week, and even the best of them could grow bored and sullen if she wasn’t careful. It was hard to know what would work to keep them interested. Using their choice of music sometimes did the trick, but it also caused verbal disagreements. Sometimes she could entertain the group with a cool acrobatic trick, like an illusion turn, and promise (tongue in cheek) to eventually show them how it was done.

Alastor didn’t intrude much on the lessons, though he did have a security camera installed in the studio. “Since you still insist on using it,” he said, “I should ensure nothing happens to my property.”

Leslie gave him a flick on the arm. “I’m not your property.”

“I meant the room.”

“Oh.” _Asshole._

Speaking of Alastor, she anticipated him stretching out their encounters until the eve of the Extermination, just as she’d feared. _Three more months_ of pain, play and teasing. Even worse, Alastor argued for fewer meetings, to quell what he called ‘the curse of familiarity’. She was no longer flustered enough for his liking - getting used to him, perhaps - and why should he partake at all if she wasn’t flustered? Reluctantly, Leslie agreed to space things out, and spent most nights stewing in her frustrations, wishing that the Shadow Man would cut loose from Alastor, scoop her up and fuck her on the roof of the hotel.

o - o - o - o - o

Sunday, around noon, Leslie got a call from Angel Dust. He had a favor to ask.

“Can you go to my room an’ feed Fat Nuggets?” he wheedled. “Filmin’ is gonna take all night; director wants to shoot it two different ways.”

So he was working. “How do I get in your room?”

“Gimme Husk on the phone.”

She obliged, going to the front desk and retrieving a copy of Angel’s room key, then let herself in. Fat Nuggets emerged from under the bed with a squeak (he recognized her!), and after fussing him for a minute, Leslie scouted around, looking for pig food. 

No such luck. She redialed.

“I can’t find it,” Leslie told Angel. “What does it look like?”

“Big bag, red and white.”

“Am I dumb? I don’t see it anywhere.”

There came a sigh from the other end. “Fuck’s sake. You know what’s really annoyin’? I’ve gotta bag of it here in the dressin’ room. Sat here lookin’ at it.”

Leslie glanced at the pig. “Why don’t I bring Fat Nuggets to you? Maybe Alastor could teleport me to-”

“What? No no no! Al can’t know about my baby, he’ll fuckin’ make bacon outta him.”

“Fine,” Leslie sighed, “I’ll get a cab. Text me the details.” She hung up before he could object, and then she scooped Fat Nuggets up in her arms. “Time for a ride in Auntie Leslie’s hoodie! Yes, handsome boy. We’re going to see your daddy, yes we are!”

o - o - o - o - o

The Porn Studios building was no joke. It was almost forty floors high, abounding in hot pink wallpaper and sexually-explicit art prints. The building was cylindrical in shape with a hollow in the center, around which a singular corridor ran, from top to bottom. Eschewing the elevators, Leslie put Fat Nuggets down and they had a race to the eighth floor, along this winding path of a corridor. They weaved around demons going about their day, in all directions.

The rooms Leslie passed on the left-hand side varied a great deal in style and function. One room was dressed to look like an Ancient Roman temple. Another was a circular space, painted green with equidistant cameras secured to the wall, perhaps intended for special-effects fuckery. Yet another room had anti-grav, causing the furniture therein to float. To Leslie’s right, the inner windowed wall of the cylinder looked down into a secret garden of thorny roses.

Finally, she let herself into Angel’s dressing room, where the décor walked the line between tasteful and tacky, and the scent of potpourri hung in the air. His wardrobe brimmed over with crumpled costumes and wigs. As for Angel, he sat applying makeup at a vanity table. He’d already been squeezed into some black PVC number with strategically-cut holes. (Leslie tried not to stare.)

Fat Nuggets ran over, happy to see his daddy.

“Hey, Nuggs! Are you a hungry boy? Don’t worry, we’re gonna fix that!” Angel scooted his chair over to a bag of feed mix, but stopped, glancing at his stiletto nails. “Les, d’ya mind?”

Leslie opened the bag.

“Thanks, you’re a lifesaver,” he said, going back to the vanity.

She shrugged. “Wasn’t that big a deal.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“What are you filming today?” Leslie asked, as she took a seat on a nearby blanketed couch. Fat Nuggets ran to her and stuck his wet snout against her ankle.

Turning back to his mirror, Angel gave her a run-down. It would be him and a work friend of his, Mercury. A standard BDSM scene to begin with - floggers, light choking, and the like - then graduating to electrical play. It wasn’t Angel’s favorite, but, as he said with a sad shrug which sank Leslie’s heart, “Y'know how it is.”

“I’m sorry, Angel. Honestly, I’m still trying to think of a way to get you out of this.”

“Yeah, good luck with that. I could do with a few more easy days, I tell ya what.”

“What’s easy?” 

“Uh… I had a john once who was inta pigeon play.”

“What the fuck is pigeon play?”

A smile cracked his face. “Exactly, right?! So I was with this guy on an outcall... He tells me to get naked an’ stick a feather right here,” and Angel helpfully indicated his ass, “like a tail, an’ he gave me a stupid fuckin’ beak to wear. Then he does the same thing, nothin’ on ‘cept for the ass feather. _Then_ he grabs a handful of breadcrumbs, throws it all over the floor an’ we walk around peckin’ at it… Swear to fuckin’ God, it took everythin’ within me not to burst out laughin’ because, I didn’t get paid if I laughed. He starts cooin’ an’ shit-” Angel cracked up for a few moments, almost crying off his mascara, “-an’ we have to literally knock beaks a few times before he sprays himself an’ lets me go home.”

Leslie covered her mouth. “Oh my God! That is so strange. You didn’t have to touch him?”

“Nah, just the bird stuff.”

“Wow.”

Angel Dust smirked at his visage in satisfaction, then teetered over to Leslie in platform heels. “I can’t complain, it was easy green. Shame he can’t get off with the same guy twice, or I’d see him again.” He paused, and his tone of voice changed. “Al’s still bugging ya, ain’t he?”

“What?” The flame lit in her stomach. “No.”

“He is.”

“Actually, y’know, I haven’t seen him all week,” Leslie said casually.

Angel darted in and plucked something from her sweater. A long hair, fading from red to brown. “Sure about that?”

Leslie sagged. Funny, this was how she caught Ranajay fooling around with his study assistant - a red hair on his pajamas. “OK,” she admitted. “Maybe in- I forgot, in the hallway, we, uh-”

“Les, why ya lyin’ about stuff like this? Somethin’ else _is_ goin’ on, ain’t it? Just tell me, for fuck’s sake. We’re friends. Least, I thought we were.”

“We are!”

“So out with it.”

“I-” Leslie tried and failed to say ‘can’t’. She couldn’t. That would lead Angel to the right conclusion about the non-disclosure, which raised suspicion about her and Alastor. She shut her mouth. 

“What?” He waited. “Hey! What's with the verbal constipation?”

 _Her and Alastor._ Leslie stared ahead. It might be possible, to be honest with Angel in a way that didn’t directly or intentionally identify Al. If she believed hard enough…

“I'll tell you what’s really important,” she said, clutching her knees. “I’m seeing a demon - not Al. Someone entirely different.”

“Huh?”

“Uh, his name is… Bambi. Tall, cheerful, primary-colored. Likes his privacy.”

Angel’s brow creased in confusion, but he recognized that the description fit Alastor. “Wait, wait, _seeing?_ OK, we’ll unpack that in a minute, but… who the fuck is Bambi? What, ya trying not to invoke a certain someone?”

The question made Leslie’s eyes dart around the dressing room; Alastor could have shadows standing there, watching this whole conversation. She couldn’t afford to get in trouble! Quickly, she stood and took a walk, smacking her hands against the gloomier spots around the room. It seemed the coast was clear.

“Whattaya so fuckin’ cagey about?” asked Angel. 

“Please try to understand,” she begged, nodding, “Bambi is who I’m seeing.”

The cogs on his head turned, almost audibly, as he sought an explanation. “Oh shit,” he realized. “Oh, fuck me. Ya made some kind of stupid deal with a Disney character.”

“Yes.”

“Since when?”

“Er… mid-May.”

“Christ,” he said. His face seemed serious, but there was something else waiting in line... incredulous laughter? “OK, so… I gotta choose my fuckin’ words carefully. Bambi’s not a hopeless case, then? What’re you guys up to?”

Leslie returned to the couch, eyebrows raised in urgency. “Angel,” she said, “you cannot tell anyone about this. Even if it _is_ a different guy. You know how miserable he could make my life - _both_ our lives - if his reputation got sullied?”

“Sullied? What the fuck…? Everybody fucks down here! Who cares? A’right, fine, lips sealed.” He mimed zipping his mouth closed, and Leslie felt a tiny bit better. “So… get me up to speed. What’s his deal?”

“Hard to say,” she said, barely believing she was getting away with this. _God, the novelty of speaking somewhat freely._ “Bambi doesn’t do this much - like, so seldom that it’s more practical to say he never does it.”

“Uh-huh. So spill a’ready.”

“Well, some fooling around, but it’s moving slow. Extremely.”

“Huh. But it was his idea? He tops?”

“Er…” Leslie blushed. “Yeah.” It occurred to her that she could have told Angel she was the dominant partner, just for the hell of it; but he wouldn’t believe her and if he _did,_ and the rumor reached Alastor, god knows what Al would do, or for how long.

“Figures,” Angel said, tutting. “Like he’d let anyone else in the driver’s seat. Not like Lucy - I guaran-fuckin’-tee that guy takes it from the missus. Slight digression. Anyway...” Angel’s tone again became slow and somber. “What I don’t understand is why Bambi’d pick _you_ over someone with age an’ experience. No offence.”

“None taken,” she uncertainly said.

“Really, though. I know you’re not a baby, but he’s got 85 years on ya.”

“Yeah. I try not to think about it.”

“So, lemme get this straight,” Angel said, counting on his fingers, “Bambi propositioned ya - someone who ain’t remotely equal to him - he’s stringin’ ya along for now, an’ like, what’s in for him?”

“I don’t understand the question,” Leslie said, her self-esteem dropping further by the minute. 

Angel clasped four of his hands together, then shrugged as if to say he couldn’t think of a way to be polite, and wasn’t going to try. “Les, if Bambi was fuckin’ ya blind, or springin’ his kinks on ya straight after the NDA thing, that’d make sense. But he ain’t, which is more in keepin’ with the frigid bastard I know, so… is he DTF or not?

“He likes making me flustered,” Leslie admitted, her head hanging as she was forced to confront her life choices, “I’m thinking of it as extended foreplay.”

“Ya gotta admit, this sounds fuckin’ strange. Ya sure he ain’t just groomin’ ya to be his chew toy? Or, shit, maybe he wants to literally chew on ya. He’s eaten demons before, an’ you _are_ a fuckin’ bunny.”

“I’m not!” she insisted. “I just look like one.”

“Details.”

“Fuck, Angel, I dunno. We just do the regular stuff, scarce as it is.” But it was a lie, such a damned, damned lie. She flashed back to their meeting outside the kitchen, how his eyes shone as he asked how it felt to be prey. _Deep down, does Leslie want to be chased and eaten? Is that in her nature?_ Then she remembered all the times he’d hurt her, and savored her blood on his lips. Angel watched as this grim short movie played behind her eyes: he knew something was up. “Look,” Leslie argued, “if he wanted to eat me, he’d have done it by now. He knows I can’t put up a fight.”

Angel shook his head. “Too easy,” he said. “Too straightforward. You know what else is easy? Hirin’ a hooker, if ya got the dough. Hirin’ someone like _me._ Now, sometimes, I’ll get a shitstick who’ll try convincin’ me to fuck ‘em off-duty, as if we’ve connected or some shit. Mostly they’re cheapskates, but also it’s a win for them if I do it, y’know?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So how much better is it for A-- I mean, for Bambi if he talks ya into bein’ eaten?”

Leslie gave a vehement shake of her head, flinging out the truth. “Angel,” she said, “I’ll give you a million dollars to drop this subject right now.”

“Jesus, Les, I’m tryna make sure Bambi’s not bein’ a carnivore creepasaurus rex!”

“You told me you’d let him fuck _you_ , you hypocrite!”

“As a one-off! Not with weird blood-oath strings attached. What did you do?”

Leslie stood, her hands balled into clumsy fists as she headed for the door, dashing off the concerned snuffles of Fat Nuggets. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she told Angel, “and feel free to join one of my classes. Sensible shoes.” Ignoring further protests, she shut herself out of his room and bombed it to the elevators.


	36. Voicing Concerns

Somehow, Leslie thought Alastor would sense their secret was out. Even if it was only Angel who knew, even if she was somewhat circumventing the terms of the contract, calling him by another name... wouldn’t Alastor be able to tell?

Well, he didn’t bring it up, and it was the kind of thing he _would_ mention. In fact, Alastor seemed more cheerful since Leslie opened the door to harder biting. Along with the usual, surreptitious winks in public, there were subtle gnashes of the teeth, lest she forget what his mouth could do to her. It was hard to imagine him flirting with her if he suspected betrayal.

Still, she felt the constant simmer of unease in her belly, and Angel wasn’t helping. He began to bombard her with text messages; given Alastor’s technophobia, it was the safest way to communicate. _Either we text, or u join me @ the Studio to talk,_ Angel told her. _Bambi won’t ever go there; trust me._

It was good to know her friend was treating this thing with due seriousness. To get him up to speed, Leslie gave Angel an abridged version of the deal (choosing to leave out the finer details, or anything that made her look like an idiot.) Still, Angel bombarded her with questions and strange sexual terms she’d never heard of. 

_Can I see a copy of the contract?_

_Does B ever hurt u?_

_Does he force u in2 stuff?_

_Do u agree 2 do stuff even if u don’t want 2?_

_Is it chastity play?_

_R u a brat? What the duck is going on?_

_...*fuck_

He then sent links to BDSM sites, with an emphasis on safe practices for new doms and subs: link after link. Her head reeling, Leslie flung her phone on the bed. Why did he need to know these things? Why did he even ask? Obviously she wasn’t going to tell the truth; it would only worry him more.

 _Angel, stop! I don’t need this stuff, we’re fine!_ she finally replied, then, feeling bad, _How are you anyway? How’s Fat Nuggets?_

A cool breeze blew in from the open window; the fall season was well on its way. Leslie knew that opening the window meant inviting in the late-night screams of the damned, but by now she was used to it, and she needed the fresh air.

 _He’s good,_ Angel texted her. _Dragged his food under the bed & demolished it, no wonder u couldn’t find the fucking thing. Lol. _

So Fat Nuggets had already eaten his fill on that fateful day. She might as well have left that pig at the hotel, and maybe her secret would have _stayed_ a secret. Just her stupid luck.

o - o - o - o - o

Leslie took a walk to the library and stayed awake to pore over the resources Angel sent. The first thing was an agree/disagree-style kink test, with an over-reliance on archetypal labels. It called her a ‘switch’, which made sense, and a ‘rope bunny’, which she hated. Any reminder of her rabbity form pissed her off. 

It was strange how being damned to Hell changed her approach to the statements. With Karlton, maybe she could imagine acting cute with him, like a little kitten, to make him pet her on the head; but down here, with the dysphoria that accompanied her demon form, the thought made her queasy. 

Then, ‘for fun’, she ran through the test again, answering as Alastor would. This alone revealed some surprising things. Yes, he was dominating, but also, she had to admit, there were times in their encounters when Alastor would behave like an animal - the way he breathed, growling and scraping his fangs against her. Then again, he could be kind and give her patient guidance, like a parent or mentor. The contrast was staggering.

Some questions gave her actual goose pimples, such as: ‘I enjoy seeing fear in my partner’s eyes’, for he had said this exact thing, after the talent show. _I prefer the way you look at me, with the trepidation I deserve._ Phrases like ‘predator’ and ‘sexual torture’ made her ears tremble.

His final results were more clear-cut than hers, and Leslie didn’t like the look of them. Quickly, before she could dwell too long on it, Leslie went back to the text messages from Angel.

His other recommended sites went into detail about staying safe, sane and consensual. Some of the terminology was familiar to her, some not. Certain things reminded her of meetings with Alastor, only without the strictest assurance of enthusiasm on her part. 

With a sigh, she put the phone down.

This wouldn’t help her. Alastor would balk at the suggestion of a ‘scene’ with stringent rules and apparatus - for a number of reasons, really. It was too debased for him, it forbade him from pushing his luck, and the idea of a mutual endeavor would turn him off. So many people pursued Alastor, and were so forward with him; it made sense he was drawn to someone who hated him a little, who had to be persuaded. Leslie. 

Maybe it was time for another break.

o - o - o - o - o

The next time she saw him, it was at the Front Desk. She had come here to unwind with a gin buck following a lesson, and Alastor was suddenly there, a few seats away. Even perched as he was on a stool, he had a nice, self-possessed posture. Alastor gave her two winks, and Leslie frowned and turned her head away. Her gaze rested on the mirror behind the bar, looking at herself.

“Ah, Husker!” he said, waving down the barcat. “How long has it been? Ten days?”

“No,” Husk replied, as if Alastor was stupid.

“No, I think it has.”

Was Alastor talking to Leslie? Playing along, she took out her phone and pretended to dial, then answer a non-existent contact. “Hi! Er yeah, that’s the one. Yep yep yep.”

Alastor’s reflection smirked at her. “Well then,” he told Husk, “just the usual. Actually, you’re practicing, aren’t you? How about a Blood and Sand?” Alastor caught her eye. “Easy on the sand.”

Leslie frowned harder. “I don’t know,” she told her phone, “not the way I heard it. Definitely not.”

Husk was too busy juggling scotch and cherry liqueur to heed this coded discussion. Again, Alastor smirked at her. “Nothing wrong with a little blood,” he added. “Just an intense flavor, when you think about it.”

“Yeah, yeah, ya fukken weirdo.”

“Well, she doesn’t believe in fly fishing,” Leslie improvised. “She thinks it’s just, uh, lying to the fish. Actually, fishing in general is pretty scummy when you think about it. Like, what’s in it for the fish?”

Unfazed, Alastor continued to instruct Husk on his drink order. “How about a little orange peel this time? That would look splendid.”

Was that directed at Leslie or not? She wondered what the orange rind would possibly represent in their negotiation for pain vs pleasure. Confused and suddenly tired, she finished her call and her drink, threw Husk a tip and left the bar. It was easier to use the bar-stools these days; perhaps she was growing again.

o - o - o - o - o

Leslie was horizontal, in her bed when he called her mobile.

“You never turned up,” he said.

“I’m just not feeling it… g’night, Al.”

She hung up, then switched her phone to airplane mode. _Come on now, time for much-needed beauty rest._ It didn’t work.

“Is something the matter?” Alastor asked from two feet away, and Leslie sprang up to see him standing in the darkness.

“Jesus fuck, Al, knock next time!”

His finger came to his lips, shushing her. “Forgive the intrusion, but the last time you avoided me, there was a hard reason for it!” He tutted as she rolled back over, facing away from him. “Is Leslie sick?”

Staring down the wall, Leslie felt the urge to cry, although her reservoir was empty. “Leslie’s exhausted,” she said. “Do you realize how much pain you’ve put me through lately? I’m worn out. The biting, scratching, prodding, forced tickling, twenty-minute brain freezes… Plus, with spacing out the meetings, I have less chance to get used to it. You know?” Leslie sighed deeply. “Starting to think pain is the only thing you want from me.”

A provocative statement, but if Alastor was going to drag her through the door to his office, she wished he’d get it over with. Instead, she felt the mattress shift to accommodate him as he sat down. His nails poked through the covers over her hip.

“What if I convinced you otherwise?” he said.

“How?”

“Tonight. No pain. Sit up, darling.”

 _No! Sadist. Dominant. Predator._ Yet she sat up anyway. She guessed, skeptically, that it behooved him to keep Leslie in good spirits; otherwise she’d never return to his office.

Alastor threw off the covers, then guided her to face him, her left leg crossed under, and her right close to his hip. As he leaned in, his arms closed around her shoulders, very high up. A church hug, Leslie’s mother called it, and it left a lot of space.

“Now then,” he whispered. Like whiskey babbling over heated coals. That radio fuzz sparked a sensation in the back of her head, making her break into a nervous giggle. 

“Ohhh, don’t do that.”

“Let me have my fun,” he said. “We’ll be doing one of the things we signed off on. Here are the rules. Hands to yourself, eyes closed, and stay as quiet as you can.”

He took to stroking his middle finger up and down, a short distance along her spine, having her breathe in and out as he did so. Leslie complied. Deep, slow breaths. On the way up, his fingertip moved against her hair’s direction of growth. On the way back down, the finger smoothed the hair flat, with a hint of nail that was much appreciated. 

“Hmmm,” he said, right in her ear. The spark in Leslie’s crown moved to her back, and she twitched. He laughed. “You thought about me last night, didn’t you?” he asked playfully. “Well, I thought about you.”

“Liar,” she said, not caring. Leslie prepared to go to a certain place in her mind, where mere sounds or visuals could be as arousing as direct touch. Maybe it was possible. She was willing to let him try.

Alastor began to weave a blood-tingling narrative, drawing out his words, and leaving frequent pauses which she filled with her deep breaths, in and out. It was quite different from past boyfriends’ “I-want-to-fuck-you-into-next-week” dirty talk; Leslie didn’t know what to expect, but it wasn’t this. He spoke about the imagined, sensuous qualities of her body in almost literary terms. The grass of her flesh that was made for grazing. Velvety softness between her legs, the perfume of her insides. It was hard to sit there and hear it with so much space between them.

“Hands to yourself,” he reprimanded softly, and carried on.

Leslie felt the motion of his finger, just a little faster. She rocked her hips almost imperceptibly, in time to the back and forth, the now-shallow breaths in and out. He noticed and encouraged this. Still faster. Still talking, telling her to transfer that sensation of his finger against her spine wherever she wished. Oh, why did he have to say that? 

Her outstretched leg bent at the knee, and the urge to coil spread throughout her body, like a spring being loaded. The growing ache she felt was dull and sharp at the same time. _Touch me, goddamn it,_ she thought, clinging onto him. 

Then he squeezed her shoulders and promised one day to pin her down and make such vigorous love to her that she’d come from her mouth like a fountain. Her eyes snapped open. It was a sudden turn, from poetry to vulgarity, a level of bluntness she didn't know he was capable of, and Leslie couldn’t take any more. “What the fuck? What the fuck?” Without asking permission, she jammed her hand against her clit, pressing hard against it. That was enough to relieve the ache, giving her a quick biting orgasm that made her cry out, her face buried in his shoulder. 

“Ow. Fuck.”

And then it was over, as quickly as it had come. Good God, how had Alastor _done_ that? He barely touched her. Who was she all of a sudden, Pigeon Man? Oh, he’d be insufferable after this. 

Leslie sank into his arms. At last, he allowed it. His fingers curled around her neck, finding the pulse. Though she couldn’t see it, Leslie could well imagine his widening crescent smile.


	37. The Golden Records

For most of Vaggie’s life, the bathroom was her haven, a place of safety and solitude. No-one could hurt her in the bathroom. That door lock meant everything at a time when she couldn’t yet defend herself.

She died screaming, and when she woke, it was in Hell, having to do it all again, only different. After all, she could heal from her injuries. But for a few exceptions, a sinner damned to Hell _could not die_ , which was the most common excuse for demons to do vile, reprehensible things to each other. Newly-damned Vaggie didn’t think she could handle it. An eternity of mere survival? It was the worst thing she could think of.

Then she met the Princess: somehow the most sweet and innocent thing in any world, up or down. Princess Charlotte Magne, insuperably more divine than her fallen-angel father. At first, Vaggie kept her distance, unsure how to navigate their acquaintance, let alone romantic interest. She thought the age difference would present problems… but somehow, it didn’t. Charlie looked to be twenty-five, and acted even younger. Time seemed not to touch her, so it wasn’t so strange that the two connected. 

Months later - careful, tenuous months - they admitted their feelings at the top of a broken Ferris wheel in LuLu World: stuck for half an hour on a freezing metal seat, forty feet in the air, but otherwise perfectly content. As Vaggie recalled, they were both blushing from the recent confession.

“This is so nice,” Charlie said, wrapping the end of her scarf around Vaggie’s shoulders. “I feel safe with you.”

Suddenly, Vaggie felt her circumstances weren’t so bad. She had a purpose, someone to protect, to stay alive for.

Locking herself in the top floor restroom, Vaggie jammed her hard-earned spear against the door for good measure. It was almost worth losing the eye to have such a weapon - but god-fucking-damn it, why couldn’t she use it on the Radio Demon? It was so hideously unfair. If she made any attempt on his life, he would simply use his power to disarm her, and then punish her for trying.

_Always, it was these men…_

Vaggie knelt on the bathmat and covered her face with one hand. She prayed. She prayed for Charlie’s safety, for the prosperity of the hotel, and to be delivered from evil… one evil in particular.

o - o - o - o - o

Alastor was away for a while. He’d never mention or explain what he did during his absence, and Leslie knew better than to ask. She shouldn’t have cared, but a little notice would have been nice. Neither sound nor sight of him since their meeting in her bedroom, and she wasn’t meant to feel like it was something she did?

Bastard.

One day, a fortnight before she would have turned 28, Leslie thought of something to tell him. She went to write it down before she forgot, and found her phone was at 3% battery.

 _Fine,_ she thought, plugging it in. _Let’s do it old school._

Taking a page of her notebook, Leslie lay on her front in bed, to pen a letter. She didn’t use their names, since Al insisted there be no physical evidence tying them together. (God, the amount of secret agency she did these days!) No matter: she knew what pseudonyms to use.

_How’s it going, Hades._

_Now, obviously, you like vintage/bygone tech, and I prefer digital media. Never the two shall meet, right? Wrong! I just remembered something that kind of blends them together. You didn’t see the moon landing in your lifetime, but I know you knew there were other planets. Maybe aliens too? I bet people have wondered if there’s life Out There since they were able to look up._

_Anyway, years ago, NASA (our space program) sent a time capsule into space. It includes a couple of phonographic records which were gold-plated, probably to make them last as long as possible._

_They represent everything humans are about: sounds, languages, and images, all there for some hypothetical alien race to find. And there’s music too, all sorts - classical, blues, jazz, tribal drums, mariachi, whatever._

_Most people are like, ‘Hey, what are the odds that extraterrestrials will find this record and be able to use it?’ I used to think that way too, but… I don’t know. Never believed in demons and angels either. Who the fuck knows, ha ha._

Leslie paused, doodling in the margins of the page opposite. Now, how to end it? Something casual.

_Anyway, thought you’d be interested. Wrote it down so I don’t miss any details, and you can burn it if you want. So yeah. Sometimes the old way of doing things isn’t so bad._

_Lots-_

Fuck. That was wrong. Force of habit. Now she’d have to rewrite the whole letter for the sake of changing her sign-off. Unless… Leslie compromised, turning the ‘o’ to a wonky-looking ‘e’.

_Let’s meet again soon; I’ll show you what was on the records. (Yaaay Internet!)_

_Warm regards,_

_Persephone_

That would have to do. She hoped the new signoff struck the right balance. It occurred to her that she might be overthinking things, which was more annoying than anything. Did Alastor antagonize about his words or actions? She doubted it.

Leslie took hold of the letter and stood up, then frowned. Well, there was _one_ thing she hadn’t overthought: how to deliver this before he got back? In his absence, the door to Alastor’s office led to a broom closet. What, was he supposed to check the closet for incoming mail?

With an annoyed growl, she flung the leaf of paper into the air, and it fluttered into the open drawer of her chest of drawers. Fuck it. She’d just tell him in person.

o - o - o - o - o

Leslie retreated to the studio to get some work done. Focusing on her phone, she was startled by a tap on her shoulder. It was Ginerva.

“Hi, my lovely hetero friend,” Ginerva said. “You busy?”

“Er…I was going to run through tomorrow's lesson.”

“Boring! Come hang out with me and Kain. We’re going to get drunk by the lava pit.”

Drinking next to a pit of magma; that sounded safe. “You and Kain, huh?” Leslie said. “Congratulations. Why am _I_ coming?”

“You can help us get the booze. I’m banned from the liquor store for stealing, and he won’t leave me alone in his car.”

“Hm.” She thought about it, ignoring her friend’s waggling eyebrows. Maybe she should go. Keep Ginerva safe, as her chaperone. “OK, I’m coming. But it’s not the alcohol that attracts me,” she added, speaking with elocution, “it’s the potential of a nice evening of intelligent and witty conversation.”

“Yeah, he’s good for that. But he’s mine, you hear me? Get your own.”

“I’m all set,” Leslie promised, “and you’re witty too, by the way.”

“I’m wittier when I drink!”

They found Kain at the front of the hotel in a growling yellow hatchback, waving at them to get in. For half a second, Leslie hesitated, hearing the screeching tyres from her dreams, but her friend dragged her along by the hand, then opened one of the rear doors for her. Ginerva rode shotgun, electing not to fasten her seatbelt. Kain turned on the radio and danced in his seat. 

“You’re not drunk _already,_ are you?” Leslie asked him, buckling up. A scent of pine suffused from the air freshener on the mirror. 

“Naaah,” Kain said. “If I’m crashing this car, I’ll do it on purpose, thanks.”

Leslie gave a thumbs up. “Terrific.”

“Kinda crazy we never hung out before,” said Kain, smoothly pulling away from the hotel and joining the main road, “but you’ve gotta keep up that good girl façade, right?” 

Leslie didn’t bother to explain it wasn’t a façade. “True,” she said, continuing in the same sarcastic vein. “That, and you were just too breathtakingly attractive to ever approach. Oh, my heart, Kain… you have stolen it.”

“Closet hybristophiliac,” he said, driving lazily. “I fecking knew it.”

“Closet what?”

“Gustauve Flaubert said it best,” Kain teased. “‘One mustn't look at the abyss, because there is at the bottom an inexpressible charm which attracts us’...” Finally he got to the point. “Hybristophilia is being turned on by a criminal or evil partner.”

Leslie laughed too loudly. “What? Hell fucking no. No, no, no. I mean…” She thought better of saying anything. “No, no.”

“She likes a man in charge,” Ginerva assumed, fluffing her plumage in a suggestive fashion. 

“God, you two are as bad as each other,” Leslie tutted. “Also, Kain, what makes you think you’re a bad boy? Aside from all the leather, and those knives in your head. Do you use them? I imagine they’re good for chopping fruit in an emergency.”

It was probably unwise, to taunt another hellion, but he’d been at the hotel for longer than Leslie, and seemed to hold the power-hungry overlords in contempt. Surely he wasn’t trying that hard to be bad.

“No, I don’t use them,” Kain scoffed, his dusty-blue hand resting on the steering wheel. “But I know what I am. There’s a balance to hit, if you want to stay at the hotel indefinitely. God and his eternal, boring, and eternally boring paradise is not for me. There’s other highs to chase, like.”

Leslie had to ask. “What did you do to end up in Hell?”

“Yeah, I wondered that,” said Ginerva, stroking the handles of his blade Mohawk.

“Lots,” he said. The car accelerated around a corner. “Petty theft, arson. Drove my brother and I off a cliff.” He laughed. 

The two girls straightened sharply. “Why?”

“Just for the craic.” he said. “Invigorating, you know? God almighty, I feel like nobody gets it. There’s no thrill like dying.” Now the car tore down a long highway. Up ahead was a three way intersection, shaped like a Y, with a statue of some unknown demon nested in the middle.

Leslie backed against the seat. “Kain!”

“Stop!”

“Kain, don’t!”

He cackled, jamming his foot on the accelerator. His long continuous yelp barely crested over the louder sound of the roaring engine. Still unclasped, Ginerva threw open her door and launched herself out. She hit the road and tumbled behind them, out of sight. Leslie’s hands went to the belt buckle, mentally unprepared to do the same. She watched in horror as the statue rushed towards them. She remembered the thud she made on the hood of the car that killed her. Too terrified to scream, she closed her eyes. 

“BANGARAAAAAANG!”

Then the smash of metal against stone. 

o - o - o - o - o

And Leslie thought the magnets were bad. She never asked what happened to demons when they practically died in Hell… what it felt like. Now she knew.

Oddly, her first coherent thought was: _ohh, my mother’s going to kill me._

She dragged her eyes up. Kain had flown through the glass windshield, cracking his head on the statue, bloodying it. He gave another enthused yelp, rolling along the crumpled car hood and onto the asphalt. From the sickening motion of his limbs, it was clear he was in bad shape. 

Leslie groaned. She was winded, and her leggings were wet from the seatbelt slamming against her bladder. When she tried to lift her head, she couldn’t do it. Paralysis? Was this it for her? Her thoughts were scrambled, increasingly panicked. _Police!_ she thought, then realized there were no police. _Help!_ she thought, then remembered the nightmarish realm she occupied.

“Helkk.”

Kain laughed maniacally from somewhere outside the car. “Help yourself, sweetheart!”

“Helkpph!” Leslie’s eyes were watering. Tears? She had good reason to cry. Her poor body was ruined. It would never dance again. 

“You can’t die,” he reminded her. “Give it time.”

This kind of collision would have killed her back home. If it had killed her now, the last thing she’d have told Alastor was _Warm Regards._

“Don’t worry about it,” Kain said, sounding impatient. “About an hour, you’ll be grand. Here, I’ll tell you the story of me and my brother. You’ll laugh at this.”

Of course, she had no choice. For some time, he talked about the “spectacular” way their Fiat Tipo had sailed from the ragged rocks off the coast of Haggard, Ireland. Gradually, she saw Kain pull himself upright, and wrestle his limbs back into place, flexing them, testing them. As soon as she could move, she followed his example. The pain hit her in waves. Her neck was especially sore. Breathing through the pain, Leslie contracted her abs; the ruined pulp of her insides was mushrooming in her ribcage, settling back into place. It was the queerest feeling - painful, but growing more bearable by the minute.

Finally, she lifted up her head, stretching her hurt neck. Whiplash. She was healing. She was getting better. 

Outside the car, Kain straightened up, patting the arms of his leather jacket for reassurance. He walked around, trying to wrench open her door. No such luck. 

“You’ll have to climb out through the windscreen,” he said. “Come on, if _I’m_ done cooking, you must be.”

Leslie glanced down. She felt better. Bruised, but not deathly injured. One hour. That was how long it took? Carefully, she leaned forward, undoing her belt, and shimmied between the front seats, over the jagged glass lip of the windshield, then onto the hood. She slid down and landed on her feet. Still alive. Mostly healed. 

“How about that, eh?” he said with glee. “Thanks for shari-”

The prick didn’t even duck as Leslie swung her fist at his face. Fresh pain rocketed through her clenched hand. She might have broken it, but she’d broken his nose too: at least Kain got a tiny percentage of what he deserved. Pity he might enjoy the punch. 

Leslie limped away from the wreck, covered in dried piss and cradling her right hand, as fireworks for some reason screeched and exploded overhead. There was no sign of Ginerva; she must have recovered from her road rash and fled the crash site ages ago. 

What a horrible day. 

o - o - o - o - o

That night, Leslie lay solemnly, naked, in bed. The lingering, bruised soreness was finally gone, but she’d woken twice from nightmares, feeling her body shatter and her brain turn once again to oatmeal, and now had enough of sleeping.

She wanted to tell Charlie or Vaggie what Kain had done. She wanted some due process, the kind of justice she used to believe in. True, if Kain was evicted, he would go on tricking sinners into quasi-deadly situations, but at least the punishment wouldn’t allow him any masochistic pleasure. _Then_ Leslie thought of Alastor hearing about it. The questions, the curiosity. How had the experience changed her perception of pain? How could he exploit that?

 _Avoid Kain,_ she told herself, _but keep your mouth shut until the contract expires._ She glanced at Alastor’s pillow effigy. Perhaps the man had had a point about not trusting anyone.


	38. Rosie and Bright

Next morning, Leslie saw unread texts from Ginerva, most of them curses. Ginerva. The two of them would have to talk, and not over the phone either. She knocked on the door of Ginerva’s room - early, to ensure the best chance of catching her - and she answered in a long fluffy bathrobe. Her beak twisted into an icy scowl, but otherwise she seemed to be in one piece.

“How are you?” Leslie wanted to know. 

“Been better,” her friend replied, brandishing her phone. “I emailed Charlie about what happened. No response yet.”

Leslie’s eyes swept the corridor as she asked, “Can you do an unsend/replace? I can’t say why, but just please... take me out of the story, that’s all I’m asking.”

Ginerva looked confused, then laughed coldly. “I’m not changing my fucking story! She’s probably read it by now; she’ll think I’m a liar if I start retracting shit.”

_ What about me?  _ Leslie thought.  _ What if Alastor hears about my second car crash in two lifetimes? _ Hotel owners talked, after all. They discussed the running of the place, troublesome guests… Leslie imagined the co-founders gathering for a late-evening powwow, to discuss Kain’s punishment. She pictured Alastor mulling over his coffee, already factoring Leslie’s near-death experience into future meetings. Negotiations could be taken to the next level.  _ Try to endure, Leslie; pain is temporary. This is no worse than your crash. _

And that wasn’t to mention the car-related pranks he could spring, now that Leslie’s motorphobia was complete. Alastor must have a soundboard  _ full _ of revving engines, squealing tires and mashing steel. Maybe there was still time. There was a chance Charlie hadn’t checked her inbox.

Leslie reached out. “Lemme just-!”

But Ginerva snatched her phone away. “Oh fuck off! I want Kain to catch hell for this! Y’know how bad my legs got chewed up after I bailed?”

“No,” Leslie admitted. 

Ginerva’s scowl deepened. “No, ‘cause you stayed in the car for some reason. Like maybe you and Kain have the same fucking fetish for killing yourselves. Is that why you don’t want to be involved in my story, huh?”

Leslie’s eyebrows shot skywards. “What? You’re accusing me? You’re the one who invited me on your date in the first place!” 

“AND YOU COULD’VE TOLD ME HE WAS THE FUCKING PAIN GUY!” Ginerva exploded, poking Leslie in the chest. She was crying now, sudden, angry tears. “I talked to Angel! You both saw what he was like and you didn’t tell me! Just let me get in the fucking car… that’s a great prank, sis! Really fucking funny!” 

Leslie blinked, confused. Then she remembered Kain at the talent show: his poem about the joy of self-injury, and his bellyflop onto the hardwood floor. The pain guy. Ginny was right. How could she forget such a thing? The twinge of guilt was followed by a flash of righteous, sleep-derived fury at being likened to a masochist freak like Kain.

“Ginny, it… slipped my mind, that’s all.”

“Bitch, how?”

“I wouldn’t throw us knowingly into the jaws of death! I’m not like that!”

“What even are you like?” Ginerva said, still poking at Leslie with one taloned finger. “You don’t tell me about your life; you quit work without telling me and leave me on my own. And now you show up at the ass-crack of dawn to beg me to shut up about a fucking accident  _ you _ could’ve prevented? You’re being real fucking suspicious, Les. Like the opposite of a friend.”

Leslie was so shocked, she couldn’t move. She stood dumbly, like a totem pole, wrestling the instinct to poke Ginerva back and call her an audacious cow with ugly leggings. Before she could do so, the door shut in her face. As Leslie remained rooted to the spot, struggling to process, she was aware of some fellow guests with their noses hooked around the door frames, eavesdropping on the commotion.

From then on, she supposed, walking away, her friendship with Ginerva was on indefinite hiatus. Suspended. Cancelled. 

Fucking fantastic.

o - o - o - o - o

To warm up before her class, and especially to avoid the potential horror of a teaching session with both Ginerva and Kain, Leslie spent the afternoon jogging. This time, she went far beyond her usual route. The exercise was paying off; within forty minutes, she was three miles from the hotel, and staggered to a halt outside of  _ F̶r̶a̶n̶k̶l̶i̶n̶ and Rosie’s Emporium _ . Waiting for her breath to come back, Leslie peered in the window. It was mostly old-timey furniture, with a few items of clothing on dusty mannequins and high-heeled shoes. 

_ You could do with some heels,  _ she thought, taking a closer look.  _ Be nice not to crane your neck so much for Alastor and Angel Dust. _

Making this the halfway point of her jog, she went inside to try them on. A shopkeeper’s bell tinkled at the entrance, which caught the attention of a woman in old world attire at the cashier’s desk. Tall, rakish and stylishly dressed, she would have been pretty if not for the awful black sockets of her eyes. 

“Can I help you?”

Leslie asked to try the shoes, then realized she did not, in her sweaty workout gear, look the part of someone who wore heels. She half-expected the woman - Rosie, she assumed - to refuse the request, but she didn’t. Leslie put them on. Too long for her feet, but they certainly added a few inches.

“Do you know of, like… any shoe repair places?” Leslie asked, planning alterations.

Rosie laughed, got up, and minced from the desk to the shop corner, aiming her dainty parasol in Leslie’s direction. “Say again?”

“Do you know-?”

Pink lightning erupted from the tip of the parasol, hitting the shoes. They transfigured, shrink-wrapping to fit her. 

“Gaaah!” Leslie staggered back in surprise, but kept her balance. “Jesus.”

“Not quite,” said Rosie, her empty eyes trained on something just behind Leslie’s head.

“Huh. I’ve heard that joke before,” Leslie said, turning her neck to see what Rosie was looking at.

“You know Alastor? He was always claiming my witticisms as his own.” Rosie had an unusually plummy sort of voice, with a cut-glass accent comparable to received pronunciation.

Leslie gazed at those blank holes in Rosie’s face. “Uh, yeah, we’re pals, I guess. How do you know him?”

“Oh, we were fast friends. Even partners at one point,” the woman said, twirling the parasol wistfully. “Naturally, he’s consumed with running the hotel now. Some of us think his patronizing the place is a terrible idea. Let’s say it  _ does _ redeem a few souls - what a waste that would be! We should have less meat after the extermination!”

“Uh, I don’t follow.”

“Never mind. If you’d like to buy those shoes, you can have them for 50 hellars.”

“Sure, sure.” Leslie stuffed a hand into her bra, remembered, smiled sheepishly and dug into her new pockets for the cash. As she held it out, however, Rosie just stood there. “Sorry it’s not exact change?” Leslie said, in case that was the problem. 

“Don’t worry about it.” 

Rosie took two careful steps forward and reached out, finally taking the money. Hooking the handle of the parasol into her elbow, the woman shuffled the handful of bills. Unlike the dollar, this currency was slightly different shapes and sizes, making it easy enough for someone to discern the differences by touch alone. That’s when Leslie understood that Rosie was sight-impaired. 

As sad as it was, the fact of demonic blindness raised some questions. Was this just the body she’d been given, a part of the punishment of being damned? It had to be. Demons could heal themselves from just about anything. 

“I’ll tell Alastor you said hi,” Leslie muttered awkwardly, following Rosie back to the desk. She watched the woman’s delicate hands fussing with the cash register. 

“Please do! I would like that,” said Rosie. “He’s been terrible about returning calls lately, so, by all means, tell him to stop by!”

“OK. You’re not annoyed at him, ‘cause the hotel is a bad idea?”

“Well, not myself so much,” she clarified, “but I run in certain circles of overlords who think...” She stopped herself with a smile. “Excuse me. I am particularly loquacious today.”

“You’re an overlord?” Leslie said. “That makes sense. And now I must have offended you, not knowing who you are. Ignorant bitch, party of one, ha ha…”

Rosie’s sockets constricted, as though an interesting idea had come to mind. “You know,” she said, “for a demon with two working eyes, there’s a lot you don’t see. I have a proposition for you, sweetpea.”

Sweetpea… the thing Leslie’s mother used to call her and her sister as children. Then Leslie processed what Rosie actually said. Another deal was being offered. “What kind of proposition?”

“Well, Alastor, bless him, is a very tough man to track. Yes, he frequents that hotel, but when I try to find him, he slips away without fail. I need something of his - a personal effect is good, DNA is better.”

“Ew.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Wait… you’re the friend he told me about.”

Rosie’s cheeks were suddenly tinged pink, but she carried on with her proposal. “If you return here with something of his, I can repay you several times over. I can help you out of whatever binds you’re stuck in, and give you the key to unlocking your powers.” Rosie smoothed the brim of her hat as she mysteriously promised, “Your potential is quite boundless. I’m no soothsayer, but that much I can already tell.”

“Wait,” Leslie said, suddenly cautious. “I don’t want power. I want to go to Heaven.”

“Then you will still need my counsel. Think about it,” Rosie said, counting out her change, “and do let me know how the shoes treat you.”

o - o - o - o - o

After her class, Leslie sat at the bar in the reception hall and ordered her usual. Listening to the music from nearby speakers, she took the time to consider Rosie’s offer. Obviously, Rosie couldn’t be trusted - nobody, these days, could be trusted - and yet it was tempting to think Leslie might have demon powers, and discover what they were… 

How on earth did she get Alastor’s DNA?

Meanwhile, Husk stood by, pouring a tall multi-colored cocktail. He seemed suspicious, constantly looking over his shoulder. Eventually, satisfied with the drink, he stepped back to take a picture. With a loud static fuzz, Alastor appeared, seized the glass and swallowed its contents. 

“YOU FUKKEN ASSHOLE!” Husk yelled, throwing his dishrag. “Fifth fukken time! I’m tryna build my portfolio here!”

Alastor only laughed, then snapped his fingers and produced a saxophone. Leslie swiveled around, happy to see him, not to mention curious. No way he could play the sax. But he did, improvising to the background music; his normally hollow cheeks ballooned like a hamster’s.

“You can play?” Leslie exclaimed. 

His mouth occupied, Alastor couldn’t answer.

“Sure can,” muttered Husk. “117 years is plenty of time to practice. Well, I guess 118 now.”

Leslie turned to Husk. “What, did he just age up?”

“Yeah, hence yesterday’s fireworks. Sonuvabitch likes to ignore his birthdays, so Vox makes sure we all remember.” 

The sax-playing grew more bombastic for the song’s chorus, as Alastor, obviously drunk, began to show off. His face flushed red to match the rest of him. He sure looked good for 118, Leslie thought - and if it happened yesterday, he qualified as a Libra, the same as her, but just barely.

“You’re telling me  _ this man _ doesn’t celebrate his birthday?” she said to Husk.

“What, entertain a buncha people he don’t care about, all tryna hug him?” Husk said, like it was obvious. “Not his thing.”

“Huh,” said Leslie. She ordered another gin and watched Alastor blasting through the final verse and chorus, his mouth and fingers clumsy but hard at work. Leslie started to get ideas. Perchance his inhibitions were lowered by the alcohol… She could drag him somewhere private, convince him into things and, circumstances permitting, steal his DNA from the spit-valve in his saxophone. 

True, it wouldn’t be fair. True, it was hardly better than Alastor using Leslie’s trauma against her… but fuck it. He was certainly going to take advantage. Why shouldn’t she do the same?

Her phone rang. Charlie. She ignored it. 

When the song was over, Leslie hopped over to Alastor and winked twice. It took a few times for him to notice, and when he did, he leaned in, so only she could hear him over the music and chattering. 

“Silly girl,” he said, “I’m the one who winks, not you.”

“Oh come on,” she cajoled, and echoed his own words back at him: “You might enjoy some of it. Here!”

He declined to finish her drink. “Remember last time,” he told her, eyes sparkling. “It is my turn to be demanding.”

No mention yet of the car crash; that much was promising. “Alright, birthday boy. We can work something out.” 

Alastor expelled his sax in a soft, musical rush of air, flexed his claws and vanished.  _ So much for the spit valve,  _ Leslie thought. And so much for avoiding the usual torments of a meeting. She nodded at Husk, crediting herself for getting rid of Alastor - “You’re welcome” - and then headed to her room to take preventative painkillers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Sorry for the lateness of this chapter, it took me a while to rewrite it! If you're looking for something else while you wait for chapters, I'm drawing Alastor and Leslie every day this month for Kinktober (nothing too NSFW, don't worry! Just want to get used to drawing them)
> 
> Follow me on Twitter here: [https://twitter.com/Hazbian1], and you'll be able to see all images here!: [https://privatter.net/u/Hazbian1]
> 
> If you'd like to commission a drawing from me, go ahead! My DMs are always open and you'd be helping me out with some dental bills. If not, thanks for reading my story this far and have a lovely day xxx


	39. Raising Cain (or, Flipping Off God)

The blinds hung closed in the fifth floor office, and as their problem guest entered the room, Vaggie made sure to twist them open, shining light directly into his eyeballs. He scowled and took a seat, coolly crossing one leg over the other. She knew him well from the sessions she taught, and had never liked him - contrary piece of shit that he was.

“Now, Kain,” Charlie said sternly, standing up at her desk. “I’m sure you know why you’re here.”

He examined his fingernails. “Not really, ma’am.”

“Don’t even,” Vaggie threatened, and stood beside her girlfriend. “Two guests told us you tried to kill them!” This wasn’t exactly true.  _ One _ guest, Ginerva, made the claim, and Leslie, for some reason, was reluctant to confirm it. Eventually they pushed her into talking, and the stories matched, which was all the evidence Vaggie needed.

“Kain, this is an extreme wrong we’re talking about,” said Charlie. “And I don’t care that it happened off the premises. These two are guests, and they’re trying very hard to better themselves.”

“Well, so am I,” Kain countered. “Don’t I have perfect class attendance? Fuck, I turn up to class more than Leslie does.”

“Why did you do it?”

He sighed lazily. “Field trip.”

“What?”

“I thought it’d do them good to experience almost-death, maybe teach them a lesson about watching their backs.”

“That’s not how Ginerva tells it. This was a deliberately cruel act, and it’s totally unacceptable,” Charlie said, glancing at Vaggie for reassurance. Vaggie nodded.  _ Just like I told you,  _ she thought.  _ Unacceptable. _

The problem guest looked pensive for a moment, and stared off to the side, examining the wallpaper. “Well,” he said, “I’m happy to apologize to the girls. Really, I am sorry for what I did. It was wrong. That’s obvious now.”

“Damn right.”

“And I’m so grateful to be given a chance here,” he went on, a little too syrupy for Vaggie’s liking. “This place is, like, my last chance at salvation; I really appreciate what you’re doing for my soul… especially with an extermination on the way.”

Vaggie didn’t buy it. This was a clear attempt at emotional blackmail, to guilt them into letting him stay. But Charlie dithered; the appeal to her softer side was working. Before she could capitulate, Vaggie pulled her away from the desk to talk.

“Listen,” Vaggie reminded her, “you said everyone deserves a chance to prove they can be better. A  _ chance _ . This guy had it, and he blew it. We’re a private business - we can kick him out for whatever fucking reason.”

“I know, but… what if he’s really sorry?” Charlie whispered back. “That’s the point of this place… y’know, atonement! Do we deny him that  _ forever? _ ”

“Think about Les and Ginny! It’s humiliating for them to share breathing space with this asshole. If he wants to atone, he can work for it.”

The two of them exchanged words, and finally turned back to the guest, who had taken a knife from his head and used it to chop a loose piece of rubber from the tip of his boot.

“You have two choices,” said Charlie, in a tone of firm-but-fair diplomatic engagement. “Either accept a six-month ban from the hotel, effective immediately, or agree to a list of conditions.”

The piece of rubber came free, and Kain chucked it close to, but not actually _ into,  _ a nearby wastepaper basket. “What’s the conditions, ma’am?”

“OK,” said Charlie, counting on her fingers. “We move you to a different teaching group, and different classes to stop you harassing those two. You maintain your attendance, pick up some volunteer work…”

“Uh-huh…”

“And you’ll be banned from taking Leslie’s classes.”

“Let’s ban you from the bar areas too,” Vaggie added, smirking, “since you’re working so very hard on salvation.” She turned back to Charlie. “Is there some way to stop him bringing women to his room?”

“Or going to theirs? Yeah, I think some sigils will do the trick!”

Kain sat up a little straighter. “Who am I, Sisyphus? C’mon now, you’re just stacking up conditions because you  _ can _ at this point. My car thing had nothing to do with sex.”

“Nonetheless, those are the conditions. Do you accept?”

He sat there, more pensive than before, and stuck the knife back into his head with little care. “Feck it,” he said, “I’ll take the ban.”

o - o - o - o - o

Leslie stood under the scalding shower spray as she washed off another coat of hair dye. Her back would likely be stained. To please Alastor, she’d let him shave away the fur there, so he could see the cuts, blood and bruises before healing her again.

“It’ll grow back, right?” she asked, still face-down on his rug.

“In a week or so,” he answered. “Demonical healing tends not to extend to the hair.”

“Wait, what? Now you fucking tell me!”

At first she thought he was lying, simply refusing to fix her fur, but then Alastor insisted that she wear modest clothing for a while, to cover the evidence of his play. Strange, he was usually careful not to leave such evidence. Perhaps the prospect of seeing her injured was too tempting, and he got carried away. 

The grey water cascaded from her in sheets. When it ran clear, Leslie drowned her fur in conditioner to keep it healthy, scrubbed her feet and sang to herself, the bathroom acoustics somewhat improving her voice. 

“We can dance if we want to, we can leave your friends behind...” Scrub-a-dub. “Cause your friends don’t dance and if they don’t dance, well they’re no friends-”

The shower curtain brushed against her, and she shut up. It billowed like the wind was acting on it; but this bathroom’s window was sealed shut, and the door, of course, was closed. 

“Hello?” She felt silly for calling out.

Just the sound of falling water. Leslie peered through, then around, the translucent curtain and couldn’t see anyone there. But she couldn’t shake the feeling. Quickly she rinsed off the conditioner, then yanked a towel from the rail and patted dry, still behind the curtain. She picked up the tune again, this time undersinging it.

“We can go where we want to...” She wrung out her tail. “Place that they will never find…”

Perhaps she imagined a shift in the steam, a little extra darkness against the wall. Leslie strained her eyes, but couldn’t see. Tension was thick in the air. If there  _ were _ eyes on her - his eyes - then what did he hope to see? Or do, for that matter? 

Leslie let out a breath through pursed lips. “I know you’re there,” she said uncertainly. 

No response. 

She couldn’t let him know this was bothering her - if he was even there - because that might be what he wanted. The voice in her head willed her to do the opposite of what she felt. Staring at the locked door, she released the folds of towel at the front and let the whole thing fall. Her demon body was such a disgrace. It was so ridiculous, even with the dye. But she stood there, shaking, hugged by the warm fog, and let him look… if he was even there. 

A minute passed. Peace and silence, apart from the thrumming blood in her neck. She’d scared him off.  _ Good to know for future fight scenarios, _ she thought,  _ all you have to do is drop trou.  _ Picking up the towel, she made herself decent and left.

o - o - o - o - o

Still days later, Leslie was shaken by the ambiguity of this shower incident. Her insomnia and her memories of bygone pains didn’t help. She couldn’t tell if an invisible Alastor was toying with her, or if it was all her imagination. It was like knowing there was a bloodthirsty mosquito in the room… somewhere.

So she turned, as she always did, back to dancing, and threw herself into her work. Movement was what she needed. She needed to make everything blur around her. She needed her muscles to ache, to feel like she’d physically tackled her problems and won.

On one of these occasions, close to midnight, she rehearsed alone, spinning in place in the studio, when the heavy door creaked open, and a most unwelcome figure came in. It was Kain. Mercifully, he stood by the entrance as she backed up, glaring, towards the opposite wall.

“Relax. I’m not staying,” he told her. “Actually they checked me out yesterday. I’m going to my new digs.”

Leslie nodded. 

“Though I  _ was _ counting on you guys,” he continued, “to be cool about our road trip. It’s not like I did any lasting harm.”

She scoffed. “No lasting harm? I’m having nightmares because of you!”

“You had nightmares anyway. We hear you screaming at stupid o’clock in the morning,” Kain said. “Look, be angry with me, that’s fine, but why’d you take away my chance at redemption?”

She shook her head, taking another step back. “Come on, dude! You didn’t come here for your soul; you came for an easy ride! All you have to do here is show up to classes and they’ll let you stay. Isn’t that what you said in the car?” She was covered with sweat from her dancing, and her mouth was dry. “You don’t even want to go to Heaven!”

“No… but the choice would’ve been good. Imagine God - imagine he admits that I exceeded his expectations,” Kain said, stepping closer. “He rewrites his rules and offers to take me, and  _ then _ I turn him down. I continue to flirt with oblivion. Not a bad philosophy, if you ask me, Les. I thought you’d see my point of view.”

“Can you just go? This is a shit apology.”

Now he was walking over in his heavy boots. “You sure you’re not a hybristophile?” he asked. Was he blocking the door? Maybe she could run around him if he got nasty. Maybe not. He smiled as he approached, as if to say,  _ Take it easy. Be friendly for your own sake. _

“Kain-”

“I really doubt your story of smashing faces into that mirror,” he said. “You’re too soft for that. And the way you let that shadow guy lead you onstage... Tells me something.”

Leslie was strong, and she had a dancer’s legs, but there was no kidding herself; she could not fight off a grown man through strength alone. She glanced at the security camera. It was turned around, facing the corner! Why was it turned around? 

Her back hit the broken mirror. Inspired, desperate, she threw back her fist, further splintering the glass, and yanked out a good long shard. Time to escalate. 

He laughed. “Woah there! Bit much!”

“Get the FUCK out of my studio!” she barked, good and loud, like her mother always told her, and held out the shard. 

“You think I’m afraid? I want a goodbye hug, is all. You owe me that much.”

Leslie aimed the fragment down. “I’ll cut your dick off, I swear to God,” she said in a stupid high voice, shoving his shoulder when he got too close. “No! Get away!”

To be fair, Kain retreated, cheerfully bouncing his step with hands raised. “Alright, alright-” and then the rug, almost literally, was pulled from under him: something yanked Kain by the ankle. THWACK! He fell on his face. Leslie yelped in surprise from the sudden movement. They were the only two in the room - nobody else could have done this. Unless…

“The fuck was that?” Kain exclaimed, coming up on his elbows. 

With shaking arms, she continued to hold out the piece of mirror. “Leave,” she said, not explaining.

Kain gave her a dirty look and got up, his shoes leaving black marks on the floor as he stomped away. She looked at the camera. Now she knew why it was turned around: so there’d be no evidence of the poltergeist attack on Kain.

Though she waited for many minutes, her assumed rescuer never appeared. Certainly she was grateful for Alastor’s help, and she’d find a way to thank him later. For now, Leslie stood alone, in silence, examining the cuts on her hand. That had been a close one… hadn’t it? She wasn’t overreacting to Kain’s attempt at a hug?

Better safe than sorry.

Leslie caught sight of her reflection as she gathered her things: a dark-coated rabbit demon with the improvised weapon clenched in her fist. Absolutely nothing like she used to be. In fact, compared to her first day in Hell, the day she barely escaped a mugging, this was quite a step up in terms of confronting a potential threat.

Leslie reminded herself not to feel too proud. Things could have gone far worse, and the fear was still there; her arms continued to tremble. Rosie was right. She could do with some powers of her own.


	40. Salutations

Leslie couldn’t stay up forever. Finally, days later, sick from stress and caffeine, she gave up. Sleep hit her like a sledgehammer. She wasn’t surprised to find the nightmares chasing her, waking her in a cold sweat at 4am. More unusually, though, there was a sharp pricking in her left thigh. As she moved, it bit deeper. _A bug!_ She flailed in place, flinging off the covers and slapping her leg. Only when she turned on the bedside lamp did she see the culprit: a needle stuck in her flesh.

“The fuck?” Leslie muttered, peering at it. _Oh. Of course._ From the time she sewed new pockets in her clothes. She looked some more. The pain wasn’t that bad, now she’d taken her bodyweight off it. _Because_ it wasn’t bad, a few moments of experimental flicking and tapping occurred, before she finally removed the needle. A tiny bead of blood swelled at the site.

Briefly, she wondered if it was normal, to aggravate a wound like that. Then she remembered she was in Hell, in a rabbit’s body, with a shorn patch on her back, because a sadistic overlord wanted a view of the marks he made there. Nothing was normal anymore.

For several hours after her morning jog, Leslie kept the needle for jabbing herself with - discreetly, of course, in public areas. It took her mind off being tired, and she could handle the pain. The ease with which she handled it was so novel, so curious. It made her think that the worst part of Alastor’s games wasn’t the pain itself, but the anticipation of it.

By now, Alastor should have verbally invoked the car crash, as feared, and he hadn’t done so… but he did commend her for enduring his play. This was relatively new. Leslie would hiss and moan, submitting to the sharpest points of him, and when he finally withdrew with shallow breath and blood-covered lips, Alastor forgot to be a cocky smartass. Then, and only then, he would shower praise upon her.

“How splendid,” he said, trailing gloved fingers over his own teeth-marks. “I wish you could see… and you took it beautifully, dear. My brave little bunny.”

Leslie knew what it was. Positive reinforcement. She’d all but encouraged him to use it in the past: “Less stick, more carrot”. Insidious though it was, she tried to ignore the implications. For the moment, he was proud of her. Her tolerance for pain was improving.

Her tolerance for being surprised, however…

“Boo!”

“Argh!” Leslie jumped, halfway along the second-floor corridor as Alastor appeared before her. “Don’t do that!” She shimmied around him, heading to her room.

“Shouldn’t you be downstairs? Your class is in 20 minutes!”

“No, that’s tomorrow.”

“Ah, I don’t think so.”

She stopped, rolling her eyes, and took out her phone to confirm the date… then frowned. He was right. Wednesday. Somehow, she’d lost track of time.

“Oh shit,” she said. “Er… so that means I’m-”

“Twenty-eight, yes!” Alastor laughed at her confusion. “Chronologically, at least. Physically, you shall stay as you are until an exterminator stabs you to death!”

Leslie nodded. “You know, a simple ‘happy birthday’ would suffice.”

He continued to laugh as he came close, to pat her on the head, and she smelled the cologne on his shirt cuff. It was nice. And they were alone in the corridor. Leslie sent him a soft, make-me-happy kind of face. Two winks was all she needed.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Alastor responded. “It isn’t _that_ time yet. But I did get you something!”

“Oh, thanks. You didn’t have to.” A pause. “What was… uh, what?”

“You’re wearing it.”

Glancing down, Leslie felt a tug around her neck. With difficulty she removed the offending article. It was a pendant choker, black velvet, with her name on the charm. “That’s cute,” she said. “Bit like a dog collar though, don’t you think?”

“The hotel address is on the other side,” he said, grinning mischievously, “in case you get lost!”

He wasn’t joking. “Oh, you utter, utter _bastard._ ”

Alastor swept theatrically away, dodging the half-serious punch she aimed at his ribs. “Better run along, my pet! You’ll be late for your students!” And he left in a soft rush of air.

Leslie grumbled to herself as she went to get changed, tucking the choker into her pocket. _My pet,_ he’d called her. Based on the quasi-collar, he might have meant it literally.

o - o - o - o - o

That evening, Angel did his best to drag her to a club, insisting he knew an ideal nightspot. Leslie had seen some of the clubs here in Hell: squalid dens for unbridled smoking, drinking and god knows what else. Dour-faced demons sulking in the darkest corners, and perhaps an intoxicated few taking to the floor in dangerously high heels. During peak hours, would the floor be sticky, like it was at Hades, or would it be slippery wet, liable to send dancers sprawling?

“The fuck kinda clubs…?” Angel trailed off in disgust. “C’mon, Les, I’mma celebrity! Used ta the finer things! We’ll go ta Lustie’s. They got these fuckin’ cocktails that come in mirrorballs. It’s ridiculous.”

“I don’t know…”

“What, ya worried about bein’ groped? I got guns.”

Moved though she was, Leslie insisted on staying in. “I don’t want the hangover,” she said. “Why don’t we watch a film in your, er, boudoir or something?” So within the hour, they were under Angel’s bedcovers, watching _Some Like It Hot_ as Angel nursed a bottle of pre-mixed alcohol. The label read ‘Tears of Bacchus: an insolent 35%!’

“New necklace?” he asked, midway through the movie.

“Uh, yeah,” she said, fondling the choker. Prank gift or not, it was very pretty, and nobody had to know the secret significance.

“Where’d you geddit?”

Leslie panicked. “I don’t know.”

“Pffft. ‘And what’s ya first name, Mr Burns?’” Angel sat up, beaming. “Oh my god, you’re bangin’ Mr Burns! Ha ha!”

She watched him cackle and roll onto his side. “That’s just... untrue on many levels,” she said - but Angel was laughing too hard to hear. All eight of his eyes began to water.

“Ah fuck, I bet Bambi drives his car at twenny miles an hour! I bet it’s still gotta brass horn!”

“Angel!”

“AHOOOOOGA!”

God damn it, it was too easy to picture Alastor, goggles over his face, in some antiquated auto. He really was that old. Leslie might have laughed if it wasn’t so sad. “I hate you,” she said.

Angel pulled himself back up, the fit of hysterics almost over. “Oh my God… hey, Les?”

“Yeah?”

“I do worry about ya fuckin’ Bambi, y’know. Demons is somethin’ else,” he said. “Ya never know what you’re gonna get.”

Leslie blinked. “W-what do you mean? Like STIs? We hashed that out after the hellpox thing.”

“I mean like havin’ a knife for a dick.”

“What the fuck?! Is that a thing?” Leslie felt her ears prick skywards in alarm, and Angel moved to tug them down.

“Nah, nah, don’t worry! That’s 99% not gonna happen. In all my years, I’ve seen like… one blade dick.”

“Jesus Christ… gimme that,” Leslie said, and gulped from the bottle of Bacchus.

“So… he ain’t rough with ya or anythin’? He’s treatin’ ya OK?”

The look on his face was so annoyingly sensitive all of a sudden. When she’d had her fill, Leslie tossed the drink back to him and fixed her gaze on the chest of drawers, which was vomiting clothes onto his fluffy rug. “Angel, if I can choose one day not to talk about this, can it be today?”

“Fine, fine. Oh hey, best scene’s comin’ up! Watch! I love this bit. Watch-watch-watch.” They continued with the film as Leslie tugged the neck of her hoodie, making quite sure Alastor’s landscaping was concealed.

o - o - o - o - o

Next day, Leslie joined another teaching session, led as usual by Vaggie. As she entered, Ginerva gave her a rather chilly look, and she turned, expecting to see Kain’s seat empty. It was occupied by one of two new faces; this one was a robust demon in electric-yellow and black clothing. More importantly, his face was upside-down; he saw her looking and his eyebrows jumped briefly to his chin. Leslie gave him a nod and sat down.

“Now,” Vaggie said, and smiled thinly to indicate the need for sensitivity, “we have some new hotel guests, and they agreed to introduce themselves and perhaps share their reasons for checking in. Now, I don’t want anyone to give them grief; we all have regrets about the life we led. But...what do we say?”

“Self-improvement is a sign of strength,” most of the group intoned.

The other new face, a sickly-green demon, close to Vaggie stood up. “Hi,” he said. “My name is Craig, and I’ve done a lot of bad shit. I mean really bad shit. The childhood serial-killer trifecta. Then as an adult, I stole, beat up homelesses...” Yes, Leslie heard him right: _homelesses._ “Wanted to do worse, like fucking kill some people. But that was wrong, and I’m hoping the Big Man can see that.”

“Trifecta whatnow?”

“You know the ones,” Charcoal said, making circles with his index finger, “child behaviors that predict how fucked they are. So arson, animal cruelty, and wetting the bed.”

“Nah, man, I thought the third one was trying to fuck your siblings or some shit.”

Vaggie held up her hand. “That’s… not helpful, OK? Thank you Craig.” She gestured to the man in yellow, who remained seated as he talked.

“Y’all can call me Decider,” he said. “since getting a new name seems to be a rite-of-passage.” He sighed. “So, I’m either here ‘cause of certain bad habits, or ‘cause I cheated on my, uh, wife? I mean, I feel like a piece of shit… and don’t get me wrong, I want out of this hellhole, but more important, I want us to end up in the same place.” He pointed up. “Maybe some of you can appreciate that.”

Leslie was reminded of Aoife, Kain’s “bitta stuff” back home.

Vaggie nodded. “Thank you for sharing. So… we all have regrets. Things we wish we’d done differently, hard as it is to admit. We all want to get out of Hell, but that alone isn’t enough to get you into Heaven. It’s easy to be sorry when your ass is on fire. What we should do is think about who our actions really hurt in the land of the living.”

Leslie tried. She thought of her friends, her family, and Karlton of course. What had she done? Hadn’t she always been decent to them, helped them out when they needed it? Maybe she’d bitched about some friends behind their back, but…

“Who’d you hurt when you were alive, mamita?”

Vaggie’s single eye narrowed at Greg’s question. “Well,” she said, “I have had a violent disposition. Most of it was self-defense. Some of it wasn’t. But I realize it reflects badly on me. You know, I’m more than that. Now,” she continued, “who here died _because_ they were doing something wrong?”

Many raised hands.

“Does overdosing count?” Decider asked.

“Oh, definitely. No offense.”

“Not entirely your fault,” Leslie said, trying to make him feel better. “It’s a physical dependence.”

The newcomer turned to her. That topsy-turvy face of his was difficult to look at. “Thanks,” he chuffed, “but my wife made enough excuses for me.”

“Not your girlfriend?” she asked. The group was largely silent, grateful for an excuse not to own up to past iniquities.

“Not so much. Fuck, man.”

“Hey, hey, I can sympathize.” She hesitated, wondering how much to reveal about herself. “Someone I knew had a problem, but he got clean.”

“Ha. That’s what he told you?”

“No, I mean… I know he did.”

“Maybe he was clean. Maybe he wanted you to think so.” Decider leaned forward on his chair. He had a slow, easy-going sort of cadence to his voice. “It’s just one of those things, like… People want you to get better, so you don’t tell them you’ve got worse. Then suddenly it’s a secret.” To her surprise, a few members of the group nodded. “And especially this last year, I’ve been so down… When that happens, you want something to take the hurt away. Like Novocain for a broken tooth.”

“Yeah, no, I get it,” Leslie said. She took a deep breath, trying to stop the emotion coming into her voice. Bad memories. “Sorry. Been awhile since I thought about him. I hope…”

“I’m sure he’s fine. And hey, I get it. I miss my girls too.”

“Lots of luck for this guy’s cheating heart,” Ginerva said, “still can’t choose between them. Your name’s a bit ironic, eh?”

“Hey, I’m trying to change myself,” said the new guy, slightly slumped in his chair, arms raised. “Plus, it’s like… you wouldn’t get it. It’s an inside joke."

Leslie stared at him. What she was thinking wasn’t possible - it didn’t add up - but she felt haunted somehow. She stared at Decider, looking for something that betrayed the man she knew. He had a stranger’s body, a stranger’s voice, but the subtler signs were so familiar.

It couldn’t be.

“What kind of inside joke?” she asked.

Vaggie interjected, sensing trouble. “We should really get back to the lesson. Decider, if you-”

“Nah, chill, lemme tell her,” he said, peering at Leslie. He, too, could see how spooked she was. “So… I always listened to a lot of metal, grunge-type stuff. Uh, Korn, Nirvana, Foo Fighters… and System Of A Down. This one song of theirs really kicks ass. I sang it on the way to work, in the car, gym locker room, you name it. But, thing was, I had the lyric wrong-”

“ _Toxicity_ ,” Leslie interrupted, shaking. “Right? Because Serj, I think? pronounced ‘disorder’ a bit weird, but it sounded cool to you, like The Decider was some vigilante, so you kept singing the word wrong.”

A frown broke on Decider’s upside down face, making his eyebrows crease in the wrong direction. There was a horrible pause as he put the pieces together. “Lellybean?”

Leslie’s hands flew to her mouth. She made an ugly noise, startling even herself; her chair legs squeaked on the floor.

“Wait.” As though the realization had somehow splashed into his lap, Decider stood up. “No, no, hold up. It’s… You’re not supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to come here!”

She barely registered the demons chattering around her, the high laughter from Crymini. Vaggie quickly marched over, grabbing Leslie by the shoulder, and then to Decider, hooking a finger into his belt-loop as she yanked him up. “Meeting adjourned!” she yelled, and pulled the pair into the corridor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I now have a YouTube channel where I go over Hazbin/Helluva news and events, do speed-draw fanarts, and tackle your headcanons! Here's the link, and I upload every Thursday. Come say hi!
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCPFULDvnCQLw09I3JxCmO1g


	41. Leslie Fucking Explodes

As Vaggie guarded the studio door with her spear drawn, Decider pulled Leslie into a full-body embrace with much rubbing of the back, and blurted out how he was glad to see her. It was one of his hugs, and no mistake, but his scent was different. Leslie could only stare at their reflection in horror.

“I didn’t think you’d be here,” he said. “God, you’re not supposed to be in Hell! What the fuck? You’re a good girl.”

She broke away. “Well, what are _you_ doing here?” Leslie asked. She’d begun to tremble. “You overdosed?”

“Uh, yeah. It happened pretty quick. Look, don’t worry, it’s in the past. I’m going clean for good.” Decider peered at her. “I can’t believe how different you look. It’s really you, babe.”

“Yeah, thanks, I know.”

He smiled, but it was forced, nervous. “We’ve got catching up to do. You are not going to believe what’s going on up there. There’s this virus-”

“Karl, stop. Please.”

He got it. “You’re not happy to see me.”

“Damn right I’m not happy! You’re dead. You’ve been using _again_ … and who the fuck was this other person? You miss ‘both’ your girls?”

Decider sagged. “Look,” he began, and Leslie pulled her ears over her face, trying not to hyperventilate. “Lellybean, lemme explain. OK, the OD thing. Look at me! You died, out of fucking nowhere. I had all these feelings and no-one to talk it out with, no fucking support system. I needed you. I love you. Getting fucked up was the closest I could get to feeling right.”

“No support system. What, your girlfriend didn’t let you grieve?” Leslie snapped, dropping her ears to look at him. “How long, you and her?”

“A while.”

“A while?” She was going to strangle him.

“It wasn’t about us, I… I’m trying to tell you, Les!”

She barely heard. “After everything I did for you! Wasn’t I enough? I tried so hard to be enough!” Leslie felt the lump in her throat as she blazed on, “You know, I’m not even surprised. Maybe I knew, deep down. You were gone all the fucking time, I thought it must’ve been either drugs or some side bitch, but _fuck_ you for making it both!”

“Hey, I didn’t _make_ it anything. I just made damn sure you two never knew the shitty thing I was doing. You were never humiliated.”

“Why not just dump one of them?” said Vaggie in exasperation from the door.

“‘Cause getting rid of Jordy wasn’t that cut and dry,” Decider said, then returned to Leslie. “Maybe there’s no way to break this gentle.” He sighed, placing his hands on her shoulders. “I don’t like labels, but if someone saw this from outside, they’d say… Jordan was not the other girl.”

Leslie was nauseous, barely processing the conversation, but she threw his hands away. “Yes she was! Yes she was! You were married to _me,_ dipshit!”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Jordy kinda… beat you to it,” he said, “back in 2015. What I did for _us_ was like… a band-aid situation. I was trying to split from Jordy on the DL, I swear to God! The timing was just shit. I swear to fucking God, Lellybean.”

“Don’t call her that,” Vaggie warned, harpoon raised.

Leslie staggered back, falling into a crouch. She felt physically winded. It was too much. _No, no…_ This wasn’t happening.

“Les.”

“Leave me alone.”

But he wouldn’t. Oh no, he just had to explain himself. “You know what? I didn’t love her anymore. She wasn’t you. You actually helped me, the way she couldn’t, nor my shitty-ass family. But we couldn’t just do what you wanted and get hitched. How do you keep that secret? And I didn’t get why you _needed_ it, like it’d change how we loved each other. So yeah, we had our thing in the park, just to fucking… postpone. It was going to work out! I was going to get rid of Jordy, and then do the paperwork for us, whatever. You’d never have known! Don’t you get it?”

She buried her face in her ears again. “Shut up, shut up.”

“Obviously it’s terrible, but I need you to… I need you down here, Lellybean.” He touched her arm. “Please, babe. I’m scared!”

What happened next was a fluid surge of motion, as Side Bitch Leslie sprang to her feet. She yelled at Karl to **GET OUT** , giving them all a jolt. The mirrored wall rattled. He fled. Leslie caught a glimpse of her reflection: burning eyes, ears sharp and erect like garden shears, her incisors long and leporine. The terror of seeing it brought her face back to normal. Her ears fell.

“Jesus Christ!”

“Don’t panic!” Vaggie hugged her. “That’s your true demon form. Everyone has one. It’s OK. You’re OK.”

Leslie wriggled out of the hug and bolted from the room, past a crowd of curious, eavesdropping demons, and up the stairs to the first floor. She had to be alone. It was too much, too humiliating. Once she closed her bedroom door behind her, she let go, crying into her sleeves. She wept for so long that it devolved into harsh, heaving coughs. Then came a knock at the door.

“Hey Les? Take it easy, huh? You’ll puke.” It was Angel Dust. “Can I come in? Vaggie told me what’s up.”

Suddenly self-conscious, she took deep breaths, trying to stop the tears. “I’ll be quiet.”

“I’m not here with a noise complaint, Les. Lemme in a'ready.”

Eventually she capitulated, opening the door. He threw all six of his arms around her. “Men are cunts,” he said.

But Leslie knew the problem wasn’t with mankind; it was with her. She couldn’t pick them. There was Ranajay, who cheated on her a decade ago; Liam, who became a lazy man-child the moment she moved in; Karlton, now Decider, who’d made her life with him small and pitiful; and inevitably, she thought of Alastor, the sadistic, egomaniacal, deal-making demon who’d turned her into his lapdog, and her stomach shrank at the notion of explaining all of this to him.

“What’s wrong with me?” she said, spurting fresh tears that stung her eyes. “I try to be good, I try so hard, and I end up with someone who fucking...”

“Listen here, Les. Ya obviously know ya don’t deserve that kinda treatment. Ya gotta forget this guy. Hey, want me to whack him?”

Leslie sniffed. “No. It wouldn’t do any good.”

Angel sat her down and told her about some sleazeball who once gave him the runaround. He told her she’d be going through some stages - feeling lower than dirt for a while, wanting to kill the fucker, even wanting to fix things, “because couples do that, right? They try an’ overcome… But don’t _you_ do that, toots. Don’t believe this fuckin’ ‘I was gonna dump her’ crap.”

“I won’t, I won’t.”

“Just take it easy for a while. No big decisions, and maybe… maybe we can get him kicked out, like that Kain shithead,” Angel said, but he didn’t sound sure. He took her arm. “A’right, come wi’ me. Fat Nuggets needs ta see his auntie.”

o - o - o - o - o

Leslie waited. She made absolutely sure that all her tears were cried, and that no amount of prodding and pressing for details would prick her emotionally. Then she walked to her door and knocked - _Shave-and-a-hair-cut_ \- hoping Alastor was in his office to hear it. Better he get the story from her than some bystander.

_Two-bits._

He let her in from the far side of the room, saying goodbye to someone on the phone. “Sorry, must go, I have to feed my pet. … Yes. Bye for now, Turnip!” As he replaced the receiver back in its cradle, Leslie took a seat beside him on his sofa. Then she told him everything, fluently, without fuss.

“In the end, I think I scared him off,” she finished, with a casual shrug. “My demon form… kind of weird.”

“Ah yes. Suitably scary for the uninitiated.”

“Maybe. You should’ve seen it.”

“Oh, I have. After the talent show, when you yelled at me.”

Leslie blinked. “Really? Huh.” She looked at him, reclining slightly into the arm of the couch, quite at ease. However, his permanent smile seemed more subdued. It was the same smile he wore when he heard dubstep. “So,” Leslie asked, “what’s your opinion on all this?”

“My opinion hardly matters,” he replied, “unless this man poses some sort of competition.”

“W- uh, what? No. What? No,” she stammered. “That’s… are you kidding? He two-timed me with that other bitch. Oh God, that’s who he meant, when he said ‘his wife’… He meant Jordan. After all the...” She shut up before the tears had a chance to form. Alastor was studying her, she noticed. Maybe coming to see him wasn’t so smart.

“Well,” he said, “it explains why he picked the smallest possible ceremony for you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I doubt there’s much I could say that would make this better,” he said, clicking his tongue. “How terrible for you, and what a nasty shock! Those other fellows you told me about, you _knew_ sooner or later how deliberately despicable they were. You felt righteous in leaving them, painful as it was, because they hurt you! But you didn’t expect that from Decider.”

“Go ahead,” she snapped, “keep rubbing it in.”

He took this at face value. “And the worst thing? Decider may still be lying to you - about divorcing her, or picking a side at all. Perhaps he was grateful for your death. It took the choice out of his hands, delivered him back to Jordan.”

Leslie felt her chest sink; her lungs felt unbearably heavy and hollow at the same time. All she wanted was to scream the air out of her. She clenched her jaw to stop it happening. “No.”

“You’re crying,” said Alastor, “because I’m right.”

Indeed she was; the fact of having wept for an hour already, and the fact that weeping in front of him was demeaning, sadly did not stop her. She let the tears fall silently, denying him the satisfaction of noisy sobs, and stared at Alastor. “Maybe you are right,” she said. “God, you must be annoyed.”

“Why?”

“Because _you_ can’t hurt me like this. Not mentally, anyway.” She wiped her nose. “How can you break my heart if I don’t love you? You could reject me now, and yeah, it’d sting... but I’d be relieved too.” Her inner bestie yelled at her to take it back, but it was true, and it might offend Alastor just a little.

After a moment’s thought, he shuffled closer to her on the couch. “Well,” he said, “there’s one thing I can do.”

“What?”

“Make you forget about him.” He paused, and they heard the ticking grandfather clock. “Or not,” he added, “I do have more calls to make this eve-”

She grabbed his antlers, steering his head down to hers so they could kiss. Then she dug her thumb into the hollow of his hip bone, something Leslie had accidentally found he liked. Sure enough, his eyelids drooped, and he let out a buzzing sigh. This was not a trick she employed often, for fear it would lose its usefulness, and perhaps it was unfair to use it at all. But she’d apologize later, not now.

Not now.


	42. Out of Control

“How the fuck would that’ve worked?” Husk was saying, after Angel filled him in. “This guy had two women at once? Two places to live, and he didn’t get caught? Who has the fukken time? Guy deserves a medal.”

Angel shrugged his four shoulders. “I dunno, cutey. My money’s on the missus bein’ a crackhead an’ all.” He led Husk into the reception hall, giving him a brief yet affectionate lower-back scratch. It was hard for Angel, keeping his hands to himself around Husk, but a cat-like growl made him withdraw. “Shit, sorry.”

“Not in public,” Husk reminded him. “So OK, maybe _she_ didn’t notice, but what about fukken Brighteyes? That’s some wilful denial if I ever-”

“Ehhhh, shaddap a sec,” said Angel, as he spotted Leslie sitting alone, at a table twenty feet away. “In italiano, eh?”

They switched. Husk’s grasp on the language was decent, and his accent strongly dialectical. He must have picked it up from some fucker from Catania. “Seriously, I don’t get how that happens fer more’n a couple months,” he grouched. “Both sides share some blame fer this one. And if she does anything but cut and run from this guy, I’ll have no fukken sympathy.”

Leslie was nursing her drink, sadly tapping a finger in time to the piped-in jazz. She looked like death; Angel would have to go and cheer her up. “Fair point,” he said to Husk. “Why don’tcha get us some drinks? I’d betta check on her.”

Husk skulked away with a flick of his tail. As Angel walked over to Leslie, he smiled like a Labrador. “Hey there, lonely girl,” he sang, once more in English. “Mind if I join ya?”

Maybe the song choice wasn’t the best; she gave a hurt frown at first, but kicked the adjacent chair out for him to sit. “Hey, Angel.”

“Just felt like hangin’ out; maybe we’ll see more idiots fuckin’ with the pole,” Angel said. He scanned the room, to see if nearby guests were giving them the stink-eye. Didn’t look like it.

Leslie noticed. “Some of them are calling me Lellybean,” she said.

“Figures.”

“Yeah. Lesbo is almost preferable.” She finished her gin. “I’m OK,” she lied, but a smirk appeared on her face, “had something to distract me two nights ago.”

Of course Angel knew what - or rather, who - she was talking about. He still wasn’t wild about her fucking around with Al, but if it took her mind off things… He leaned in. “Oh yeah? Ya gonna share the details?”

“Not here.”

“C’mon… ya gotta gimme a clue. _You_ brought it up! No-one’s lookin’ at us.” Unconvinced, Leslie glanced around slowly, twisting in her seat. Angel expected her nose to start twitching. No sign of Al anywhere, no shadows, and surely no reason for him to be invisible. Angel nodded, encouraging her to spill it. Then Leslie raised her hand to her face, lightly scratching at first, then sliding a finger into her mouth. Angel slapped the table. “Get the fuck outta here!”

“Nononono, no,” she said with her hands raised, “take that extremely literally. And keep your fucking voice down!” 

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Uh, but that’s it? Ya sucked his fingers?” Damn it, that was only _kind_ of hot. He’d been expecting more. Angel imagined taking Al’s clawed thumb in his own mouth up to the knucklebone, as a prelude to nicer activities.

“No, there was something else. He made me show him how I, you know.”

“How ya what? Oh, never mind, I get it.”

“My whole face was burning. I was so embarrassed.”

“Can’t relate,” Angel shrugged, and lit a cigarette. “Was that the idea, ta make ya embarrassed, or was he like takin’ notes?”

“Uh… both, I guess.”

“And you’re inta that?”

She faltered, scrunching one of her ears. “Well… I don’t know. Right now it’s a distraction. And compared to certain people, he’s an imaginative, er…” She struggled to find the word. 

“But he literally ain’t giving ya any.” Angel tapped the first hint of ash into her empty glass. Down here, the cigarettes burned up like blue touchpaper. Such a fucking scam. He was just feeling sour about it when he saw a flash of yellow by the bar: a demon, no longer hidden by a cluster of new friends. “Oh, ya gotta be kidding me. He’s still here?”

Her face sagged when she saw him. “Shit.”

“Why is he still here? I told ‘em…!”

Leslie swung back around and rested her despairing head on crossed arms, the hood of her sweatshirt flopping over. In effect, it was a cotton-polyester burrow. “They put us in different groups,” she said, speaking into the gap, “all that stuff, but they can’t turn him away for stuff he did in life.”

“Oh great! So they’d let fuckin’ Hitler check in?” Angel ranted.

There was a pause. “I forgot Hitler would be down here,” Leslie said, still in the burrow. 

“Not anymore he ain’t. We threw him ta the exterminators pretty toot sweet. Uh, Les? Your hubbie’s comin’ this way.”

She stood and saw for herself. A strange look came over Leslie’s face;: that unique style of determined female crazy he’d seen many times. Her eyes moved to the stage. “Hey, Angel,” she said, “wanna bet I can do a human flag around that pole?”

“What?”

“Yeah, I think I can. Watch!”

Before Angel could ask what the fuck she was doing, she’d already bounced off. Ignoring the stairs, she pulled herself onstage, like a swimmer getting out of the pool. Decider went after her. 

“Les? Can we talk, baby?”

 _Fucking couple drama,_ Angel thought, dragging on his cigarette. Human relationships were so complex in such tedious fucking ways. Sure, Angel was worried for his friend, but he sure didn’t need to be involved in the bitching and quarreling. Meanwhile, Leslie stood stage left, psyching herself up for something, and she ignored Decider’s pleas to talk.

“Do it!” someone yelled.

She seemed unaware of any possible audience. What has Leslie said? A human flag. That trick didn’t need a run-up, unless she planned to take a flying leap and spin round the pole at a right angle. But that’s exactly what Leslie did. She sprinted and flung herself polewards, and Angel bit through the filter on his cigarette; but she caught it, completing at least one revolution, before dismounting onto her fucking face.

“Oh, shit.” Angel raised his voice slightly. “You OK?”

It was almost impressive, but for the crash landing. Angel realized she only pulled it off at all due to sheer recklessness. That carried through seconds later as she launched into some kind of dance. Frantic floor work, banging her knees and elbows and throwing herself around like a ragdoll. Whatever it was, it did _not_ go with the jazz that floated through the air. She wouldn’t look at Decider, no matter what he said. 

Angel kept his distance, and used his now-unsmokeable cigarette to light the next one. Onstage, Leslie played with the pole some more - clumsy attempts at inside hooks and other spins. Then she cracked her head against it. A metallic clang rang out; some in the audience winced, others hooted in amusement. Next Leslie climbed the pole, as high as she could, and failed to execute a ball-drop, impacting the floor. THUD. 

Decider hung back - concerned, it seemed to Angel, but resigned to being ignored. Soon, he gave up and left, and yet Leslie continued acting weird. More rough-and-tumble floor work, slamming her shoulder this time. Then an unhesitating slap across her face.

“Jesus.”

Angel heard the scrape of chairs and the rumble of several footsteps. Behind him, the demonic throng took their leave, including Husk. Alastor stood facing the bar, in a black cloud of teleportation smoke. His finger pointed at the entrance, directing the others to Get Out. Even from behind, the bastard looked more dangerous than normal, with the air glitching around him, cutting that smoke into irregular squares. He rotated on his heel and gave Angel that same _Get Out_ look, before turning to Leslie. Angel didn’t like the look he gave her… like she was a kabob on some vertical rotisserie. So he marched over with his new cigarette, long and ashy from neglect, and put it out on Alastor’s lapel. Angel was leagues less powerful than Al, but he was still the tallest demon in most any room.

“ _You_ makin’ her do this?”

The Radio Demon kept his smile. “My pranks have more finesse, I’ll have you know,” he replied. “Run along.”

“Don’t fuck with her, OK? I mean it,” Angel warned. “She’s doin’ bad enough as it is; she don’t need you screwin’ her over.” The jazz music increased in volume. Alastor’s doing, no doubt. “Hey, look at me when I’m talkin’ to ya!”

The music stopped. Leslie landed one final time, in a heap. Now she was done, Alastor’s eyes trained on Angel, and transformed into flickering radio dials. 

“Be careful,” he said. 

Angel snickered. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve seen it before. Listen, bud, how ‘bout we take this outside? No powers, just fists. Let’s see how well ya do then.”

For a moment, Al considered it. Then something fell from overhead, crushing Angel like a bug. Judging from the noise, it was another piano. Great. 

o - o - o - o - o

The sound of her friend’s yell brought Leslie back. She saw three of his arms splayed beneath the crumpled pile of wood. She was ready to jump offstage and throttle Alastor, but he held up a hand, stopping her.

His inner radio was playing.

It was the song she hated.

She stood still, shook her head. Begged him. _Don’t make me do this._ But his eyes narrowed, and there was no choice. Leslie took a staggered breath, lifted her arms, and moved straight into it. She had to. Alastor was pushing her, staring hard. Before, Leslie danced just to get all those horrible feelings out of her. Now, she let new feelings in. Ancient, primal motions rang echoes through the chasm in her chest. Her body mopping, stretching, flailing, churning and bringing concept upon horrible concept to everything she did. 

The more she moved, the greater her anxiety became. She felt taller. Her vitals were there, everything, in the flesh. Thudding. This was wrong. This was all wrong. Her spiritual apex was not supposed to come to her in Hell! She didn’t belong here; the demon was not in the dance! She cried it over and over in her head, but it was no use. The demon _was_ in the dance. 

That song reached its midway point, rolling down to much-needed breaths by the singer, but Leslie was far from soothed. _Her_ breathing increased in urgency, chest tightening, and she collapsed to her knees. He saw. Alastor was intrigued by the seize of terror. Drawn to her weakness.

The awful music was building again, building to a peak of extraordinary sound, and the dance would take her into darkness. Death. Certain death. And he wasn’t helping. He watched her breathe, let her panic.

Shadows crept from the edges of the stage, flexed their claws at her. Leslie was rocking in place now, shaking her head. _Let it stop, please let it stop._

And Alastor did the last thing a person was meant to do for someone panicking. With a flick of the wrist, he brought her several feet off the stage, held from the ribcage by invisible hooks. Leslie felt a cold flash over her skin, then a stab of terror, knowing what would happen a half-second before it did.

She spun.

He was spinning her quickly, tightly, her arms flattened to her body by centrifugal force, and the throat singing became a rasping, ragged animal cry. She lost control. Swinging through space on an axis, Leslie saw dark shapes, indigo against black. Red burning satellites made rings around her.

She shut her eyes but the music swept her up, faster still, faster, faster! Alastor felt the music’s pause and slammed her to a halt, upside-down, her ears hanging. A momentary leer, snuffed out. Darkness again.

Leslie took off the opposite way, faster still, and finally the scream trapped in her throat found its release. She screamed like a wounded creature in its last moments, in the jaws of the beast. She screamed in a voice that wasn’t hers. She fed Alastor with her scream. Shook the hotel. Begged. Despaired. STOP! 

**_STOP!_ **

**_PLEASE!_ **

Finally, as her wayward form danced on the brink of what was surely the fatal heart attack, Alastor ceased everything. He let her down softly, onto the stage. That easy jazz played again. Leslie scuttled back, as far as she could. Too shaken now to do anything. No powers to throw. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Alastor did her the small decency of lifting the piano, and Angel Dust dragged himself free.

“Ow,” he said as Alastor vanished.

“Are you OK?” Leslie asked. She crawled back across the stage.

“Mostly. Don’t hug me for a while,” Angel said, huffing as he got to his knees. “Fuck. I don’t get his deal with droppin’ piani.”

“What did you do?”

“What did _I_ do? Try to defend your honor, as it fuckin’ happens! Thought he had ya under some voodoo hex bullshit.”

“I’m sorry, Angel. I feel terrible.”

Still wincing, he stood up completely. “Nah, don’t _feel terrible_ , Les. Just…” Angel took in the empty room. “Forget it, let’s get the fuck outta here.”


	43. The Sin

The women in Leslie’s family - according to her mother, anyway - had a strange ability in situations that demanded it. Against the odds, when they should have snapped long ago, or perhaps had snapped already, they could ride the wave of crazy and do what needed to be done. 

Leslie suspected it was a form of dissociation, and more universal than her mother claimed. She’d used it herself on occasion, as a waitress. On long nights at Hades, with horrid customers and too many tickets, Leslie pasted a deranged smile on her face. She addressed her tables with a too-cheerful “HoW cAn I hElP yOu?” customer-service voice, and somehow she survived another night.

Even so, she’d never had a breakdown quite like this.

After the spinning, Leslie knew there wasn’t much time. She led herself and Angel Dust out through the side exit; past the area where she, Baxter and Niffty once took decon showers; and by way of a fire escape, they made it to her room unseen. When they got there, Angel asked why they took the scenic route.

“Just in case Charlie or Vaggie come knocking,” she explained. “I’m, er… I’m going to deny that anything happened, and you’re going to back me up.”

“Ex-fuckin’-xcuse me?” said Angel. “A bunch of demons were forced out of that room, moments ‘fore  _ you  _ screamed bloody moida!”

“He sound-seals his rooms,” Leslie said, meaning Alastor, “plus, the guests leaving is sort of suspicious, but they won’t say anything. It’s Bambi. They’re not stupid.”

“But he dropped a 500lb musical instrument on my fuckin’ head! I don’t even know what he did ta  _ you, _ I couldn’t see… because he dropped a 500lb fuckin’ instrument on my fuckin’ head!” 

Leslie pushed past him and flopped into her armchair, her right leg jiggling uncontrollably. “He didn’t do much,” she admitted. “Some spinning, that’s all. He did the same thing to Niffty for that mummy-wrapping game; I was just in the wrong mood for it.”

“Ya sound like a batt’red wife...So he wasn’t makin’ ya dance like a crazy dame off her tits on molly?”

She shook her head. “No. And I’m sorry he dropped a piano on you.”

His expression loosened. “Well, I did pick the fight with him… but still! We should fuckin’ report this. Vags already thinks he’s up ta somethin’ with ya.”

“I seem to be the guest everyone has a problem with,” she said bitterly. “Kain, Decider and now this. It’d be easier if I just left.”

Angel fell to a crouch, holding down her leg to stop it jiggling. “No, Les, wait. What we gotta do is get ya outta this shit with Bambi. This contract… what, you’re obliged ta do certain things with him ‘fore it’s over?”

Leslie stared at her dresser. It had a fascinating wood grain. She remembered staring at it when she was ill, to anchor her during the fever.

“Hey! Earth to Les!”

“What? Yeah, it only expires after the extermination.” She sighed, covering her face. “I’ve come this far. I’ll just get what he owes me, and then it’ll be like this never happened.”

“Dangerous game you’re playin’ there. There must be… What kinda bargaining power d’ya think ya got?”

“Well, he likes rabbit blood. But he could get that from me with or without my permiss-”

“Woah, back up. He likes what?”

She froze. “It was a joke.”

“No it fuckin’ wasn’t. Oh my God,” said Angel. “Les, I’m tryna help ya here, but…” He stopped, shifting the narrative in his head. “OK, I guess the threat is implied. Your thing ain’t consensual, the amount of power he has. It fuckin’ can’t be.”

Leslie laughed ironically. “Yeah. I’ll tell my lawyer.”

“You got any evidence of this mess? Somethin’ that’d make Charlie kick the shit outta him?” 

She didn’t think so. Alastor never kept anything that would link them together, and he never gave her anything of his. Remembering the photo she took of him, Leslie searched her phone, but couldn’t find it. The picture had died in ‘Recently deleted’, where she left it. She even checked her room for the letter she wrote to him, and it was missing, though she never threw it away. On top of that, the DVDs of her dancing were gone. 

“For fuck’s sake. Those were mine! I know I’m dead, but… still my property. I think.”

“OK,” Angel brainstormed, “what if I break inta his room?”

“No, that door is a closet most of the time. Either he lets you in, or…”

“What?”

She told Angel about the time Shadow Man brought her to the office. God knows why Alastor had  _ allowed _ that; perhaps, in his pox-induced delirium, he couldn’t tell what the shadow was doing. Either that, or he subconsciously wanted someone to drop in and feel sorry for him. 

Angel nodded, dusting a piece of piano off his jacket. “A’right,” he said, “uh… we’ll think’a somethin’, OK? This is one tricky fuckin’ scenario, but I’m workin’ on it. And Les?”

“Yes?”

“If ya think he’ll listen to ya…” That sentence hung in the air for a good long moment. “God, I bet ya don’t even wanna fuck him anymore,” he said.

_ Forgive me, father, for I am about to sin… _ Sinking ashamedly back into the chair, Leslie repeated, “I’ll get what he owes me.”

o - o - o - o - o

Leslie wanted to stay away from Alastor, really she did, but of course the rufescent prick could appear wherever he wished. Next day, after she gave a lesson, Leslie (and the single remaining student, putting on his socks) saw the studio lights shatter overhead, plunging them into inky-blackness.

“Baaah, Jesus!” the student said, falling over. 

Then Alastor’s arms snaked around Leslie, and they moved to a balcony further up the hotel. She wriggled free, rubbing her bare arms. It was a cold night. They seemed to be very high up, somewhere between the library and the roof. The bright pink lights of Porn Studios twinkled in the distance, and a hellstorm had begun to break. Dark flashes moved through the sky.

“Hello, my dear!” Alastor smiled. “Good show yesterday! You were electric.”

Leslie glowered at him. “I was not,” she said. No reply from Alastor, but he backed up against the balcony railing, grinning strangely. She couldn’t read him; what was it, condescension? Smugness? Anticipation? He was sitting on something, anyway. “You hurt my friend,” Leslie said. “You hurt me.”

“I didn’t touch you.”

“You hurt my mind.”

“Oh, but I couldn’t!” he replied. “Not in the same way. Isn’t that what you said?”

Leslie recoiled as though she’d been slapped. “You-! It wasn’t a challenge!” She charged forward and barely stopped herself from dealing Alastor a blow to the stomach; he could easily throw her over the railing if she tried. But to her surprise...

“Go on, hit me,” he said, stepping down on one knee to make it easier. “I have it coming! Let it out, my pet.” The word ‘pet’ did it for her, and she sank a hard punch into his abdomen. She hit him again, and again, and all he did was tut and make smart remarks. “Oh, that was a good one! Oof! You’re stronger than you look!”

Her strikes grew less powerful as Alastor placed a hand on her head.  _ Fuck you!  _ she thought.  _ Damn you to the deepest pits…  _ His hand moved in slow strokes, and then all she could think was how much she wanted to crawl into someone’s arms. How much she wanted her family. How much she wanted to be in love again, with anyone but Alastor. This time she did break into sobs, hiding her face in his coat. Leslie felt his other hand on her back.  _ There, there. _ “Why did you do that?” she snuffled. “Why did you do that? It was so  _ awful! _ ”

He didn’t answer at first, but the sky made horrible sounds, reminding Leslie of chalkboard-scrapes and vulture calls. “Darling,” Alastor said in a low voice, “why did you dance like that in the first place?”

“I don’t know.”

“You injured yourself, silly girl,” he said, arms circling round her again. “Do you think you deserve it?”

“I don’t  _ know _ . You do it to me all the time. Why’d you spin me?”

“Truthfully? I wanted to see what would happen,” Alastor said. “Some people, pushed to their limits, will discover things about themselves. When I entered the room, you were far gone already. I thought you were aiming for that trance I saw in the vee-dee. Or, perhaps you lost your grip, and needed someone else to assume control. I’m always happy to do that, when it comes to you. But that was a mistake. I should have known you couldn’t handle it.”

Leslie looked up at him, and the reds of his eyes were gleaming. All she could say was, “Oh.”

His hands interlocked at the small of her back. “Don’t you want me to take over,” he asked, “sometimes? Isn’t it nice to go limp now and then?” Alastor’s inner radio was going crazy; she heard it dial back and forth between stations, buzzing and whining. When he caught himself, he cracked a more genuine smile, showing the crow’s feet.

“Al…”

“I can look out for you, you know,” he told her, “make sure no-one fuels another of your nightmares. I’ll reward your obedience when we play together, and I’ll feed you when you’re desperate. Just give me room to do so, forgive my wicked ways, and we’ll be very happy, I think.”

He was using all his tricks: the words, the expressions, touching her. Soon she gave up the fight, and wilted like a dying daffodil. As she relaxed her fists, Leslie felt her palms were covered in pinpricks from those needly claws of hers. She never knew they were so sharp.

Alastor sat her on the balcony with ease. Afraid of toppling over, she clung to his torso, and his arms moved to the railing on either side of her. He effectively boxed her in. Another flash of darkness made Leslie jump. 

“No, wait, wait,” she said. “Someone could see us.”

So he scooped her up as the sky screeched (a shorter gap than last time; the storm was coming closer) and took her inside, carrying her under his arm like a lamb. This time, he came to rest in a hard-backed wooden chair, with Leslie in his lap. They both faced a painting of Eve, with the serpent Lucifer wrapped around her body, a painting that struck Leslie as being exceptionally dark, but for a brightly-painted upper-right corner.

“Well?” Alastor asked into her ear. “Why can’t we be happy?”

“J-just don’t spin me like that again,” she said, “or I swear, I’ll…” She trailed off.  _ Not much you can do, _ she thought, and obviously he knew it. His hand came to her throat, to check her pulse, and oh God, she was so, so tired. 

Leslie didn’t know how long she sat listlessly with her back to him. For a while, he was content to stroke her arms, humming to himself. Then he leaned over to cover her in quick, sharp bites. It felt rather like she was being hole-punched, but Leslie allowed it. Whyever not? Alastor interspersed these bites with some of the worst jokes she’d ever heard. “One day, two drums and a cymbal fell from a cliff,” he said. Then a noise from his soundboard.  _ Ba-dum-tsh! _

“Heard it,” she muttered.

“I don’t trust stairs,” he said. “They’re always up to something!”

“Oh God, no.”

“Did you hear about the fight between 49 and 50?” he asked. “51!”

“Auuugh!”

Now he’d lifted Leslie from her gloomy state with god-awful puns, Alastor fell silent. He carefully pulled her head back by the ears, and set upon her neck. His nails ruined the buttons of a perfectly good shirt.

Leslie faced another dilemma. What could she do? Leaving now was out of the question. To present even  _ token _ resistance would give Alastor what he wanted; he enjoyed the emotional ambivalence, after all. To submit immediately would set a precedent, and he’d expect it from her always. But it was only one more month. 

_ Dangerous game. _

Even through layers of clothes, she felt his radiating heat. Leslie gave a long, conflicted sigh, and melted against him like hot wax. “I hate you,” she said.

He laughed. “Get off me, then!”

_ Not for all the ill-gotten money in Hell,  _ she thought. Looking at the painting - this all-too-fitting portrait of sin - it seemed to Leslie that Eve wore an odd smirk, like she knew what she was getting into. Leslie raised her arm, just reaching the soft ends of Alastor’s hair. What followed was a while of Alastor running his hands all over her, for she was very accessible in this new position. He formed circuits, moving from one sensitive spot to the next, onto the next, until she could hardly stand it. 

“Ohh, fuck.”

“Am I forgiven?” he asked, and Leslie nodded impatiently. He handed something to her, which turned out to be her underwear (that old trick of his) and guided her other hand downwards. “Now,” he said, “show me again.”


	44. Another Confession To Make

Leslie peered around the corner of the hotel lobby, to check the fireplace for free seats. Sadly, demons crowded the common area, many of them toasting marshmallows. There were more guests than ever this month. So she went again to the reception hall and grabbed a few drinks and a table. 

Someone had gone nuts in here with the Hallowe’en decorations. The wallpaper, formerly cobalt blue, was now a tangy orange and covered in spiderwebs. Fake bats hung from the ceiling. In the corners, papier-mâché cauldrons vomited fog onto the floor. It was a bit much, to be honest; Leslie felt like she was in fucking Hogwarts. 

She wondered what Christmas would be like: her first Christmas in Hell, circumstances permitting. Soon after that would be the anniversary of her death. God, it was hard to believe so much time-

“This seat taken?”

She looked up and saw Decider, in a new Foo Fighters band shirt, nervously fidgeting. He was such a stranger to her now, physically so different. Leslie grimaced; but the man looked so pathetic, she couldn’t turn him away.

“You’re not meant to talk to me,” she said, kicking the chair out.

“I know. Just five minutes,” he bargained, sitting down. It was a round table, made to seat seven, and he respectfully left an empty chair between them, the one she’d kicked. “I knew I was going to Hell,” he began, "actually saw those devils they tell you-”

“Karl.”

“Right. Er…” He scrapped that whole story and moved to the crux of the matter. “First of all, I wanted to make sure you’re OK. You were pretty upset last time I saw you.”

“Yeah, well…” Leslie shrugged. 

“You getting any help for it?” Decider asked. “They told me there’s a hotel therapist. You should, y’know… talk some of this out with them.”

As if it were that easy. Even without the non-disclosure clause in Alastor’s contract, Leslie wasn’t thrilled about seeing a therapist. To sit in a dark room, recounting all the things wrong with her life, didn’t sound productive, and she told him so. “I made room for more dancing in my schedule,” she added.

A ragged sigh. “We’ve been over this and over this. Fuck, if _I’m_ getting help, you should be.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Les, please just… I don’t wanna repeat of last time. I’m coming at you as an adult here. Hate me, whatever, but you have a really bad way of coping with things!” 

Leslie sat straighter, about to throw it back in his face - the substance abuse, the infidelity - but she felt her ears raise. Bringing out her demon form was the last thing she wanted. She heard one of the last things Alastor said to her: _Let go._ Her anger faded, and the ears dropped.

Decider peered at her. Still fidgeting.

“OK, listen,” she said calmly, “I’m dealing with this in my own way. You’ve got four more minutes.”

“Right,” he said, locking his fingers before him on the table, like a harried businessman trying to broach a deal. “I know I got a lot to say sorry for… It’s like, where do you even start, y’know?” He looked at her, and Leslie wondered if he was sincerely asking _how_ to apologize. “I’ve missed you, Lellybean. I’ve missed you so much.”

A demon began to snigger at the next table, to Leslie’s chagrin. Oh, how difficult it was to be alone. Mustering some dignity, she asked Decider how he’d been surviving the last year. “Living with Jordan?”

“Kinda,” he admitted, then gave a bitter laugh. “‘Love the one you’re with’, right? And maybe... y’know, I’m going to be honest with you, ‘cause you’d be insulted otherwise. Here it is, straight-up. Maybe I _did_ still love Jordan, like the tiniest leftover bit. I was trying to find the woman I promised myself to, years ago, and she wasn’t there anymore. All we did was call on Marco and get wasted.”

“Sure.”

“But what you and me had was the real thing, and… oh man, I fucked up. I fucked up so bad.” His voice wavered, like he was holding back tears. _Oh, don’t you dare cry,_ she thought. _Don’t you dare._ Her own throat tightened, and she fixed her eyes on the table.

“Yeah,” she said, “we both did.”

“But that’s why I’m here,” he went on, as surely as if he’d practiced the speech all morning. “I’m at this hotel to fix things, and be a totally different guy. The whole phoenix from the ashes thing. You don’t have to talk to me until I’m done, but… you being here too… it has to mean something.”

“In Hell?”

“In this place.” Decider gestured to their immediate surroundings. “I don’t even believe in fate, but I believe some people can earn second chances, if they work hard enough.” He looked at her. “Even if it takes years, I don’t care. What I want is to be the kind of man you could love again.”

His hand drifted across the table, resting near hers, without actually touching. Probably wary of being hit if he tried. Leslie pulled her arms tight across her body, because God help her, she wanted to take his hand. She wanted to blow past everything she knew to be true, and be with Karlton under a blanket, watching some stupid movie like old times. It would be so easy.

But then she came to her senses. Maybe he’d change, but for how long? Life in Hell was a lot of stress, a lot of pressure. If she forgave Decider, and gave him that security he wanted, he could start to drift again.

No. After her final month of sin, Leslie would have to be single for a while. 

“Karl,” she said, then sighed, correcting herself, “Decider... I’m with someone else.”

The weight of the statement didn’t hit him for a few seconds. “What do you mean, with?”

“Seeing. Another guy.”

“What?” Now Decider’s features crumpled in confusion. “Since when?”

“Seven months ago.”

A long, low groan. “‘Love the one you’re with’,” he echoed. His head snapped back to her. “ _Do_ you love him? I mean… Oh, hey, you a’ight?”

As Leslie was a little sick in her mouth, Decider put a hand on her shoulder, and she let him, buying herself some time to think. What to tell him? She didn’t love Alastor, not even remotely… but she needed a clean break, for her sanity. This was the quickest, most certain way to do it. “Yeah, pretty much,” she said, almost apologetic. _What sense does that make? You’ve got nothing to be sorry for._

Decider shook his head. He kept shaking, like that skull of his was too cluttered to think. “This doesn’t change things,” he said, “I’m still staying. Who is he, that pink guy with the arms?”

No… no, that was a lie she couldn’t possibly keep up. “Angel’s a friend,” she admitted, slugging Decider’s hand away, “a very, very gay friend.”

“Well, I don’t see you hang out with anyone else. Who is he?”

“Karl, enough!” she said, hitting the table, and the neighboring demons ooooooh’d loudly, like the studio audience of a bad sitcom. “It doesn’t matter who I’m seeing, or whether you, what, approve of him? It’s my business.”

“I’m trying to help you! For all intents and purposes, you were my wife, babe. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Images of Alastor’s snarling grin came to mind. His teeth and claws.

“I’m sorry,” Leslie said. Then she got up, finished her drinks, and left, giving the finger to those other demons. Not a great final talk with Decider - she lost a few points by gargling gin like a lush - but it was done. Just one more month, and Leslie could start her life again.

o - o - o - o - o

The hotel counsellor was a non-binary demon named Gorgel, who looked human, except for a magnificent pair of horns. Charlie was quite jealous of these horns, which outmatched her own even in demon form. Gorgel was also, as it happened, exceedingly Scottish.

“Come in,” the counsellor said, “Ah’m jus’ gonnae eat this while we chat.” Gorgel held aloft an enormous pot of yoghurt, almost like a trophy, and Charlie nodded as she curled up on the chaise longue. “Wannae hear what yer shitty guests hae telt me this week?”

“No! No, no, no,” Charlie scolded. “We don’t break confidentiality, not unless-”

“Unless thair’s a risk of harm tae ‘emselves or others,” Gorgel finished. “Aye, I ken. But thair’s nothin’ tae dae in this place, and Ah’m no’ allowed a wee nashgab wi’ a co-founder?”

Sometimes it was hard to understand what the hell Gorgel was saying, but Charlie was more or less used to it now. She got comfortable, lounging on her side. “Nashgab?”

“Gossip, yer highness.” 

“I see. Well, has anyone else decided to use your services?”

“Naw, still nae new’uns. Ah keep chippin’ away at yer friend an aw’, but nae luck thair. Fowk like him tend tae think they’ve nocht tae gain ootae therapy.”

Charlie blinked rapidly. “Are you saying Al is a narcissist or something?”

Rolling their eyes, Gorgel answered, “Ah simply widnae ken, yer highness. Bastar’ willnae see me, so Ah can only speculate. Dinnae worry, the minute he comes in tae whine aboot hoo hard his fuckin’ life is, ye’ll be the first tae hear.”

Charlie nodded. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Richt, so,” Gorgel said, slurping yoghurt off their chin, “aw the recent bookin’s, eh? Ye must be busy.”

“You have no idea,” Charlie sighed gustily. The Happy Hotel was almost at capacity this season, but not for the reason of redemption. Most demons simply believed Alastor would use his powers to keep the exterminators from the building. Maybe he could; she didn’t know.

Meanwhile, the anticipation of the next cleanse could be felt in every pore and crack of this hellhole. Take yesterday, for instance. Someone waited until the dead of night to stick posters to the walls of the hotel lobby: posters with such legends as “You deserve this”, “The end is nigh”, and “Sinning means death”. It was so fatalistic, Charlie could hardly bear it. With a little help from Husk and Niffty, she tore them down and replaced them with Hallowe’en decorations - much nicer than the alternative.

“S’gottae be tough,” conceded Gorgel. “Ye wannae believe the rehab thing is workin’...”

“Right! But it’s almost time for an extermination and I have nothing to show for it.”

The counsellor shrugged, licking the lid of their yoghurt. “It’s no’ _... nothing,_ ” they countered, mocking Charlie’s accent. “Guests’re fair happy, richt? Safe an’ secure?”

 _Safe and secure for now,_ Charlie thought. She only hoped the hotel would be an effective sanctuary, should the worst come to pass. In vain, she’d appealed to her parents, finally catching them on the phone. “Dad? No, listen. They-- I’m just asking for a little help!”

Her father gave a dismissive snort. “For the ungenerates? The building I gave you should suffice,” he said. “Hell, with the renovations, it’s in a better state now than when I gifted it to you.”

“But _our_ estate is the safest place I know. The guests would be on the grounds for _one day!_ ”

“Plenty of theft and destruction can happen in a day.”

Charlie tried to explain that her guests weren’t like that, when her mother came in on speakerphone to say her piece. “There’s every chance your sinners could be redeemed _during_ the next rapture,” she said helpfully, “while the angels are down here. You want those angels to find your sinners, don’t you sweetheart?”

“Well… I guess, if-”

“There you are then!”

Then they hung up to attend some event with the Von Eldritches. Some princess she was turning out to be. The tiniest bit of responsibility, and Charlie still managed to screw it up. All she needed was one, just one redemption!

“Here’s hoo Ah see it,” said Gorgel, tossing the empty yoghurt pot away and tearing open a miniature packet of cornflakes. “Yer ma an’ pa hae a reputation tae protect. They’ve gottae stay on brand, an’ even if they _dae_ believe in yer cause, it’s political suicide tae say so.” 

“I know.”

“Plus, yer pa still has beef wi’ God, richt? Matter o’ pride, not tae be swept up wi’ this charity an’ virtue shite. Like, dae the pair even still chat? Does Lucy hae a direct line tae the Big Man?”

“I mean, yes,” Charlie said, “but the line only goes in one direction. Why am I telling you this?”

Gorgel shrugged, chewing their cornflakes with a hearty scrunch-scrunch-scrunch. “Can we swap seats, yer highness? Ma back is givin’ me jip.”

“Sure.” With another sigh, Charlie got off the chaise longue so the counsellor could lie comfortably, and she took the seat Gorgel just occupied. 

“Ta muchly!” Scrunch-scrunch. “Tha’s better. Also, Ah’ve an idea for ye. If yer priority is gettin’ _a’body_ intae Heaven, ye shuid jus’ focus on the best wans.”

“The best ones?”

“Aye, whi’ever bastar’s makin’ the most progress,” said Gorgel. “Like, if ye’ve three kids gaein’ae scule, an’ aw o’ them hae shite grades except wan, whit’s the quickest way tae get a kiddo on the honor roll?”

Charlie sank against the chair. “Lift up the brightest child.”

“Exactly. Desperate times, hen.”

Her highness left the therapy session hungrier than when she arrived (likely due to Gorgel’s wanton snacking), but also more conflicted than ever. How could she pick a best guest and focus on them to the exclusion of all others? It didn’t feel right for a place like this. Weren’t they supposed to give everyone an equal chance at redemption? She couldn’t even think who stood the best chance. Angel had been here the longest; Kain used to hold the highest attendance; and Vaggie was the one who most took her own teachings to...

Vaggie.

Changing direction, Charlie jogged upstairs, feeling a sudden need to find her girlfriend and hug her, as tight as she possibly could.


	45. Getting Lost

For the week and a half leading to Hallowe’en, Leslie heard not a peep out of Decider. As promised, he kept his distance, and on rare occasions when they crossed paths in the hall, it was a stiff nod of the head, nothing more. The distance was appreciated, and it gave her space and time to think. 

She wanted to tell him not to change, if it was only to impress her. Leslie thought it was only fair to tell him. How disappointed would he be if, after all the hard work, she couldn’t take him back? It was unnecessarily cruel to lead him on, and she wasn’t a cruel person.

Charlie would be pleased though, if Decider became a success story for the hotel. Right now, the woman seemed desperate to get someone, anyone, to redeem themselves. The rent dropped. Class attendance was incentivized. Access to the bar became steadily more limited, and rumors spread about some kind of planned quasi-baptism event. 

“Dunno how the fuck _that’s_ gonna go,” Angel remarked. “I feel like doin’ religious stuff down here makes ya burst inta fuckin’ flames.”

o - o - o - o - o

Leslie had no plans for Hallowe’en. Maybe she’d go to the roof that night and watch the city come to life. She certainly expected nothing from Alastor, who’d been absent since their rendezvous by the balcony; but then he turned up on Saturday morning, his hands behind his back, as she was having breakfast.

“New dress?” he asked.

“Not exactly,” she said, “but look! It’s got pockets!” This did not seem to amaze Alastor, so she shrugged and asked him where the hell he’d been.

“I move in mysterious ways,” he said, and winked twice. “Nine.”

Leslie frowned. “Huh?”

“PM,” he clarified, and then he stretched out a hand to, for some bizarre reason, drop a pile of bacon onto her plate. Alastor left without a word of explanation, so Leslie was confused. He’d never done such a thing before; he only ever stole her food. A horrifying thought occurred, and she had to call Angel Dust to check on his pet; but Fat Nuggets was safe and unharmed.

“He’s prankin’ ya,” said Angel dryly, “and very fuckin’ funny it was too. My sides are in fuckin’ stitches. Ohh, the pain.” 

But Leslie wasn’t so sure. The more she thought about it, the more it felt like some kind of sign. And why did Alastor want to meet her so early that night?

Superstition led her to re-shower that evening, brush her teeth twice, and spray herself with a can of air-freshener she stole from Niffty. She even took out the old green babydoll and laid it on her bed, staring at it. The significance would be lost on the likes of Alastor, but maybe he’d tear the thing off her body with his teeth, and that would be exciting.

 _No,_ she thought. _Don’t do this. Don’t be so fucking obvious._

At 9PM she entered his office, just a little better-looking than normal, and Alastor leaned against his desk, one slender leg crossed over the other. She loved his legs, and wanted very much to expose his ankles and cover them with kisses. Not many people knew he wore sock suspenders, but oddly enough, he made them work. From outside came the sounds of light drizzle: acid rain again. It was a good night to be indoors.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he said. 

“Hi, honeybunch,” she japed, joining him by the desk. “Is that a foxglove in your lapel?”

“Indeed.”

“Hm. Well, I don’t speak flower, but it’s very striking.” She noticed the song playing on the record player. “I know these guys!”

“You do?”

“Yes! Fuck, one of my mom’s friends introduced me to them, when I was younger. He was probably hitting on me, thinking back, but great taste in music. Sorry, I’m babbling, I… don’t know why I feel so nervous.”

He came into her personal space, simultaneously lifting and tilting her head with both hands. _Oh nooo, no no no no,_ she thought for the hundredth time. They nuzzled, mouths slightly open, which gave Leslie a wonderful heady sensation. She tasted the air he’d breathed, inhaling as he exhaled, and felt a little intoxicated.

“I want you,” he said, “to dance for me.”

“Sure,” she said, taking his hands - but he pulled them away, straightening up.

“No, no. I’m going to be over there,” he said, indicating the couch on their far left. With the same hand, he lifted the gramophone needle from afar, ending the music. “Your last dance, that fit of hysteria in the reception hall… we were very close to something, and I happened to spoil it. You know what I’m talking about, yes?”

She knew. “OK,” she said, “er… if you want me to go all spaced out, it might take a while. Like, potentially hours.”

“I don’t mind.”

“And I’ll want my own music,” she said, causing Alastor to roll his pretty eyes. “Oh, c’mon! Not everything I listen to is trash. Look, I’ll let you pick the playlist.” Leslie dragged him to the couch and sat him down, navigating to the music library on her phone. “Here,” she instructed, scrolling through, “these guys are grouped by BPM, these are the different genres…”

Alastor raised an eyebrow. “Uhh, darling?” he said, pointing to one list in particular. “Explain, please.”

Leslie’s stomach dropped, but she pressed on furiously. “ _This_ one is disco tunes,” she said, “which might be more your style-”

“Ah, but _that_ list had my name on it!”

The sound of rainfall, the grandfather clock, and Leslie’s mortified groans. “Noooooo,” she said. “Literally anything else.”

“It can’t be that bad!”

No, no, no… he had no idea what a mess it was. Some songs were harmless electro-swing; some were up-tempo 30’s jazz; others still were songs Alastor played during their meetings, which Leslie took pains to recover from VoxTube. There were tunes the two of them had danced to. Tunes to which Leslie _wanted_ to dance. Low, simmering tracks, in the genres of R&B and trapsoul - made for fooling around, but they would bore him silly! Lyrics that described him and the gorgeous tension they shared. Fuck-you lyrics. Words that were hideously wrong, like, oh God, the song about voodoo which was so inaccurate as to be insulting. Lyrics explicitly about being dominated and devoured. Even songs she liked _in spite of_ the message, and if Alastor heard them, of course he’d assume the opposite! 

That personal mixtape was never meant for his ears. It was her whole psyche laid bare, without context, and she could feel her face flushing, probably a deep purple, and he was enjoying every second of it. “Young lady,” he chuckled softly, “I must insist.”

She eyed the door - her only exit. “Nope.”

Alastor turned very quickly to what he was best at - deal-making. “Leslie, you know I never pass up a chance to see you embarrassed! Now, you can walk out of here, and by November’s end, we’ll be done. I can be the bare minimum of involved. I can be the most passive, ungenerous of partners. But,” he said, deliberately slow, stroking her face, “if you get over yourself tonight and do as I ask, I will give you everything you’ve craved, sevenfold.”

Well. 

There was no arguing with that. 

Before she knew it, she’d left him on the smaller couch and moved to a faraway spot on the carpet, kicking off her heels. The lights dimmed, and even the grandfather clock stopped ticking. Her face burned like hellfire. _Be professional,_ she thought, then corrected herself. _Be… be something. Let go._

“I just tap the triangle?” he asked, holding her phone.

She nodded, and they began. 

The first three songs were a disaster. Leslie could only move with her eyes shut, and still it was self-conscious, graceless, clumsy. Awful, awful, awful. That wasn’t how fucking voodoo worked, _please Alastor, don’t think I think that’s how it works._ Surely he was judging her dance as usual, modern and sincere as it was. Then it came to her in a memory: hour five of the danceathon. It was a state of exhaustion, Leslie having bled out whatever energy she had for her favorite songs. So she realized: to re-enter that trance, she had some bleeding out to do.

Her next song was quite heavy with its percussion, so she led with that, throwing her weight around. Acquainting herself with the floor, beating with her fists and writhing, like an eel giving birth to itself. God knows what she looked like, but it was pure effort, nothing else. Then it was about tension, and Leslie rolled and pressed with her arms. She was stuck, somehow, in the air, and had to wriggle out, and to hell with keeping her dress skirt in a modest place. The music dipped lower, more inviting, and she became the witch from her teenage years, facing Alastor again. Her arms came out, in small feminine circles from her body. She waved her energy towards him, then summoned his, beckoning it from his body. Only she knew the summoning power of that decade-old dance, but it seemed to be working. His eyes had a light of their own, and his smile ran the gamut, from dominance to reward as something nice sparked in his brain, then back to dominance.

Leslie kept going and going, as she squeezed and mangled every drop of meaning from her own dance. Excising Alastor from her soul, making it cry. It was a muddy, intangible evolution. The tiredness set in. Her heart thudded. Her fur was damp from sweat, yet she powered through. She moved, moved, moved, until her limbs became blades dragging through sand. Resistance. Ease. Leslie kept going. 

Now the dance lost its connotation. The witchy seductress was gone; so was the mad dervish from the reception hall. They were all gone. Her movements were repetitive, over and over. Building momentum that would never pay off. She couldn’t see. She couldn’t feel.

There was no way to tell how long it lasted, and she might have been floating slightly, away from the carpet. Hard to know. She was simply… lost. 

And then she felt the blazing warmth of a hand on her shoulder. Before Leslie could recollect, Alastor yanked her back into the real world, back to her feet. The music stopped, and he dropped her phone to the ground.

_“That’s_ what I was looking for,” he said.

He kissed her full on the mouth, a kiss as deep as they came. Leslie let him, grateful to have sensation back; then she hissed. His teeth cut into the side of her tongue. It was bearable though, and she didn’t complain. Tasting blood in her mouth, he kissed with more passion. Leslie swung precariously on the spot, on tiptoes, but his hands cradled the small of her back. A thought swam into her dizzy mind, of Alastor biting out her tongue. She shivered. What did rabbit meat taste like? Gamey, she imagined. 

He let her go. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Whatever you want,” she said. 

“Good answer.”

Taking her hand, he led her to the office door and opened it. She was disappointed, expecting to be kicked out. Instead, there was a portal to the outdoors - a bayou at night, which she'd only seen once before. The moon was out, bright and full. It was bizarre to hear acid rain from the nearest window and not see it falling out there. 

“Well,” he said, “shall we?”

Maybe she was dreaming… but her dreams always turned so sour. 

Not this time, though.

They stepped over the threshold.


	46. Fun On The Bayou

Leslie fell to a crouch and ran her fingers through the grass. It had been too long since she saw or felt real vegetation. Last time, it was the garden at Porn Studios, possibly fake. What was the link there, between plants and carnality? Her mind was in the wrong place to think of it.

“Where is this?” she asked, getting up.

“Louisiana,” he said.

Alastor held his cane to light the way, and Leslie followed him. She found the night air to be sultry, hardly the place to cool off after an hour of dancing, and it was filled with the sounds of rushing water and unseen wildlife. The ground was semi-firm, grassy and wet. Of course it was. Her feet were still bare. Probably just as well, though: she pictured herself and Alastor crouched on a tarp in his office, chipping dried mud off their shoes with screwdrivers. It was decidedly unsexy, so she stopped.

They walked with difficulty along the bank, until there were scuffed wooden slats underfoot. She heard Alastor’s shoes clopping against them. 

“Is this where you bring all your girlfriends?” Leslie asked, scraping mud off her feet.

He smiled and stuck the end of his cane in the ground. It became a makeshift lamp, lighting their surroundings up in brilliant red.  _ Danger.  _ Alastor took off his jacket and laid it on the boards.

“Make yourself comfortable.”

She stared. “The place we just left was comfortable.”

“But we’ll be alone. No-one downstairs or upstairs, no-one to interrupt. I’ve been coming here for years and never been disturbed.” He walked over to kiss her - close-mouthed, to prevent an accident as he walked them back to the spot he’d picked. 

Leslie broke away for a moment to sing. “Juuust the two of us,” she warbled, but got no response.

Then Alastor swung her to the side, placing her down on his jacket, with the stiff boards beneath it. Uncomfortable. Isolated. No movement, no sounds of human interference with the landscape. They were truly alone. Leslie felt a shock of fear and delight in equal measure. With a look, she told him to get down here and join her, which he did, still bathed in red like a devil. He  _ was _ a devil. Lying atop her, he kept most of his weight on the elbows, and she wasn’t trapped, not at all. 

In the time it took her to regain her strength, Alastor loosened her clothes enough to access her still-damp neck and chest, like any hooved animal to a salt deposit. He didn’t care. His hands carved soft tracks in her sides and legs. No claws yet. Leslie’s own hands drifted over him, and she only wished her arm-span were greater. 

This continued for a while until Alastor dug a nail into her obliques, and that woke her up. Impatient, she tore her bodice down, and the skirt up, bunching it around her middle. To her surprise, Alastor did not conjure her panties into his hand; he cut them free of her body at either side, balled them up and tossed them at the lake, never to be seen again. Fine with her, so long as some frog didn’t choke to death on them. 

“You too,” Leslie said, sitting up.

Sitting back on his haunches, Alastor waved a hand and his clothes dissolved away, landing neatly folded at the edge of the boards. This was not a trick she’d seen before. She covered her mouth, looking at him. From the waist up, he was the same, uniformly warm gray. Around Alastor’s hipbones, the skin changed, turning dark, dark red, almost black in this strange light. She saw patches of white on his inner thighs…  _ like a deer _ … and when she checked him for signs of disease (or perhaps some horrific barbs, designed for copulatory wounding) she found none. Coloring aside, he was quite normal.

Looking up, she noticed Alastor take a swig of something from a tincture bottle, which he discarded. 

“What was that?”

He ignored the question, falling back upon her, and she let him. For a while, they were swimming on dry land, each lost in the flesh of the other, kissing like wild things. As always, he scratched and bit, just within the letter, and she didn’t mind. The only thing wrong was their damn height difference. 

She gently pushed him away, made him sit up, and climbed onto his lap. Touching him. Tasting the bitters of cologne on his neck, savoring the heat.

“Easy,” he said into her ear. “There’s no rush.”

True enough, but Leslie was done waiting. Part of her was afraid to go through with this, because then it would be over; the stronger part urged her to seize the chance before he could take it away. She forgot what an abomination she was. She forgot the terrifying remoteness of the bayou. Instead she clung tightly, moving at the hips, her excitement meeting his, and she caught his eyelids as they fell closed. His inner radio tuned left and right, looking for the right station. 

“I want you,” she told him. 

“That is obvious,” he said, “but tell me again.”

She said it over and over, as if the repetition alone would work that particular brand of magic. Her recent trance was helping, somehow; she felt it. Only when she got specific about her wants did he lift her up and try to fit them together. Leslie grew anxious as something felt wrong: the angle, possibly? Had it just been too long since she’d done this? Carefully, with patience, she persevered and breathed through the initial discomfort, as Alastor curled over, breathing down her neck like a horse. Finally came the brief snick as he safely broke her in.

“Fuck!” she said, getting used to the heat. It had happened, the culmination of months of teasing and wanting, worrying and longing. It took her a moment to notice that Alastor was looking down at her, the unnatural light casting harsh shadows over his face. He seemed the tiniest bit stunned.

“There,” he said. Pulling her towards him, he fell onto his back, which put her on top. He took a moment to flip his hair out of his eyes and mouth with a ‘fwuh’ she found endearing. “More practical,” he explained at last. “You’re just too short, my dear.”

On the contrary, she felt unnaturally tall in this position, but soon overcame the stage fright. Leslie did what she thought he wanted. When the men in her life put her on top, it was to enjoy a certain viewing experience, to have unfettered access to a female body.  _ Here are my curves, _ she said, and kept up the same flattering, rolling motions until Alastor sat up and took her by the shoulders.

“Forget that,” he said, gently reprimanding. “Do what works! Use me.”

What the fuck did that mean? Leslie wondered, as Alastor pulled her down. They were now horizontal, parallel. He slid her forward and back, using the pressure of her own body weight against him, in a manner most stimulating. 

“Oh,” she said. 

His fingers found her neck, which became rapidly flushed as she followed him down this path. Ebbing, flowing, breathing hard, and in her case, making high-pitched, urgent little cries. It was a sound for her benefit and his, driving home those sensations that would get lost without a little help. Alastor was talking now, about how he’d dress and season her for dinner. “You shouldn’t eat bacon,” he said, pulling her ears, “you should wear it.”

“What?” Leslie saw herself from the outside in a rare out-of-body experience: the small, wriggling creature trapped in the hunter’s arms, about to have its neck broken. She should have fled, but the feeling brought her back, of being a woman - not a rabbit! - able to bring him to the same heights she was chasing. “I will,” she said, and never mind how weird it was, “I’ll wear it.”

“Oh, good.  _ Good. _ ” He tensed, he buzzed, he made the most wonderful sounds - involuntary, almost ugly. Alastor was wrapped in his fantasy of eating her and it was so wrong, but Leslie adored his fervor. She gave herself over to it, bucking against him until it happened, in a series of deep contractions that took over her body. She clung to him as she climaxed, every muscle tensed, including the less exercised ones within. 

Alastor lay where he was, feeling the overwhelming thud of her heart against his abdomen. As she recovered, weakened, glowing, moving to kiss him, she sensed that he himself was not done. Still restless, still desiring. In fact, he did something odd: coiling up, polishing his clenched teeth against her collarbone, like he was close to madness trying to rein back. 

Leslie made a snap decision. She knew what he needed. It would hurt, but he needed it. She could not die. He could not kill her.

“Alright,” she gasped. “Make it quick.”

“What?”

“Eat me. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“Very much.”

“Do it, then.” She patted her shoulder. “Right here. Just… hurry!”

Alastor did not need to be told twice. With inhuman speed and strength, he seized her wrists, cuffing them above her head as he flipped her onto her stomach. Leslie’s eyes widened. He kept her down with a firm hand, not messing around. 

Alastor shifted, creating some wiggle room, just enough to drag her pelvis back, into position, and allow his re-entry. It was easier this time, at least from his standpoint; Leslie had to stay balanced on the balls of her feet, ass in the air like a sprinter on her mark. The different angle seemed to do it for Alastor, and his breath quickened. 

Then, Leslie saw him silhouetted against the ground, monstrous, his antlers stretched out like sharp tree branches. There came a horrible noise, of an attic door being flung open, and Alastor, the warped, shrieking wendigo, lunged forward. His teeth snapped shut, piercing her right shoulder like a bear trap. 

Leslie screamed, more from terror than pain. Some scared critter made a splash in the water nearby. Alastor’s demon form erupted into muffled laughter. A stream of blood and saliva trickled towards her head, meeting new rivulets of sweat at the nape of her neck.  _ You’re fine,  _ Leslie told herself through tears. _ You’re fine, you’re fine, just hang on.  _ She tried to breathe through the pain at both ends. Her heart pounded, the blood spurted in unison, and he was still fucking her, one hand on her belly, the other hooked onto her collarbone. Leslie knew he’d finished when he gave a shout that rang in the night air.

Her insides stung.

Carefully, Alastor opened his jaws, freeing her shoulder. It was mostly puncture wounds, though he did take a singular strip of flesh, nipping it off at the end, and Leslie dug her nails into the wood. The sound of chewing next to her ear made her retch, but nothing came up, and she spat on the ground. It formed a long, viscid strand, dangling from her dry mouth.

Alastor’s head fell between her shoulders, and his tongue swirled lazily, tasting her blood. The side of his face felt slack. Perhaps pleasure and exhaustion had taken away his smile.

They stayed that way for maybe half a minute. 

“Thank you,” he breathed.

The adrenaline was wearing off. “It hurts,” she whimpered.

“I know, darling. I’ll fix it.” Now she felt the apple of his cheek; the smile was back.

While he regained his own energy, still inside her, Leslie’s hand went to her clit, circling round and round. She was absurdly trying to wring some masochistic enjoyment from this situation with the flesh wound. Without warning, Alastor pulled out.

“Jesus fuck. Oww.”

He leaned away for a second, fumbling in the pocket of his jacket (surely crumpled and muddied beyond repair). Then he gave her a handkerchief, offering it to the hand that was between her legs.

“Here.”

“Thanks.”

Alastor’s healing hands rested on her torn shoulder, making her hiss. Leslie figured she looked ridiculous, kneeling there, covered in sweat and gore as she dabbed at the fluids leaking out of her. But the bite wound grew numb, sealing and reforming like nothing had happened. Alastor was so careful now; there was no trace of the hitherto stuff of nightmares. “Are you sore anywhere else?” he asked. 

Leslie let out the breath she’d been holding. “What do you care?”

“I was going to fix you.”

“Leave it,” she said, “be a nice reminder tomorrow.” Why wasn’t she furious? She had every right to be. No fire left, she realized: Leslie was all burned up. She fell onto her back again with a grunt, tucking the handkerchief in her pocket. The stars shone above. More critters from the bayou made themselves known, and when she looked at Alastor, his mouth and jaw were smeared with her blood. 


	47. Well-Traveled

Angel didn’t understand it; another night of promise slipped away as Husk fell, drunk and defeated, into his arms. Maybe Angel was doing something wrong.

“Hon,” he started to say.

“Wait, just wait a fukken minute.”

“OK.”

They’d progressed from the cellar floor to Angel’s room, where the lights were dimmed, gentle on Husk’s eyes. Angel made every attempt to create a welcoming space, to be warm and encouraging without smothering the poor guy. Something was still the matter. For one thing, Husker was so drunk that his eyelids hung almost closed.

“Ya do want this, don’t ya, hon?”

“Sure,” Husk grumbled, “I mean, yeah, of course.” He buried himself in Angel’s fluff, sniffing. “No fukken clue why  _ you’d _ want it.”

“You kiddin’? I’d walk through a hail’a bullets if it got me two minutes scratchin’ ya between the ears,” he said, proceeding to do so. 

Husk purred - grudgingly. “Fuck off.”

Angel stopped. “I mean it though.”

“Look, spidey, I’m an old man. Besides, you’ve got a kill count in the thousands,” Husk countered, sitting up. “I figured, if you ain’t sick of it by now, your standards must be pretty fukken high. Higher than me.” He made an unusually sober point, his sleepy eyes pointed at Angel’s face, before falling upon his chest all over again.

“That ain’t true,” Angel said. “There’s more ta life than bangin’, anyway.” And there was - warmth, security. A peaceful night for two kindred souls. Why did he feel so fucking… poetic around this cat?

Muffled, “I can’t love yer stupid ass.”

Then Angel shrugged, faking normalcy when he felt right on the edge of everything. “Well, shit,” he said, “if you don’t wanna do it… guess I gotta pick up the slack.”

“Ha. Pick up the slack...”

“Honest. That’s enough for me.” God, he was shaking. Husk noticed and dragged himself out of the fluff, and it seemed the carbonation behind his eyes was fizzing out. Those intense, beautiful eyes, burning orange at the center. 

“Who are you,” Husk muttered, “Dusty Springfield?”

“I don’t mean it like that,” Angel said. “It ain’t a resentful, ‘Scraps are fine, I guess’ kinda thing. All I means is, I’m here. Platonically or no, whateva brings ya ta my lair.” Husk was still staring. “Ah shit, never mind. Let’s go back-” 

Husk banged his head against Angel’s, apologized, then planted a drunken smooch against his mouth. There was no real tension or finesse, but it was pretty goddamn honest. 

“Holy shit,” Angel said when it was over.

“Mio stupido angelo,” Husk murmured, collapsing. “Uuuugh… can we sleep?” He swung one heavy leg over Angel, like Lennon once did to Yoko, and stayed there, purring. 

Angel smiled so hard, it hurt. “Yeah,” he said, “we can sleep.”

o - o - o - o - o

Leslie was only fit to lie down, staring at the man who took a bite of her shoulder. Then she felt constrained by her dress: bunched around her, and sticky at the back, reeking of copper. It had to go, right now. She pulled it over her head and tossed the thing aside. Meanwhile, Alastor made no move to dress himself. Too hot, perhaps. Somewhere in the madness, he’d lost the monocle, or put it out of harm’s way. 

“A brave thing you did,” he said. 

Leslie rolled onto her side. “Uh-huh,” she said, preparing for the lecture. He was about to accuse her of sulking, and tell her the idea was hers and she should take responsibility. 

Those words never really came, though he studied her with his head tilted. Then he scrambled over the boards, looking for something. When he couldn’t find it, Alastor tutted and conjured a wet cloth, using it to dab the blood from her shoulder. “It was worse than you imagined?” he asked.

Leslie nodded. Her teeth began to chatter.

“Worse than-?”

“Al, please.”

A pause. More sounds from the bayou; it never stopped. 

“Let me tell you something,” Alastor said quietly. “You know I’ve eaten people before, but it’s a rare thing to find someone who gives themselves willingly, to that extent. For months, I’ve wanted that flesh of yours. It makes my mouth water. I’ve been crazy for it, but we had to wait until you were ready. You don’t know how  _ exciting _ it is, the thought of eating you, and never running out of you.”

She shivered. High praise from the likes of Alastor. 

“On top of that,” he said, “you’ve been trying very hard to please me, and I do notice.” Turning Leslie on her back, he parted her legs, none too forcefully, to clean off whatever was stinging her. The cloth was cold, but bearable. When he was done, she pinned her knees together, returning to the fetal position. “Leslie.”

“You should’ve picked Kain,” she said, “getting gored to death is kinda his fetish.” Alastor shook his head in distaste, then lay beside her, comfortable in his nakedness. In spite of her mixed feelings, Leslie stared at his aberrant, too-slender form; she was determined to make some memories, in case she never saw him naked again. Then he proffered his hand to her, sparking green light. “Oh god,” said Leslie, “not another of these…!”

“I promise you, no more teeth or claws tonight,” he smiled, “either side of midnight, so we’re clear. You’ve earned that much.”

She barely hesitated before shaking on it. There seemed to be no cryptic language there, no way to work in a nasty little clause. It was easy. Still holding that hand, Alastor pulled her in to kiss her. 

“Ah-ah-ah! Blood-beard!”

He wiped it off. Still the taste of it on his gums. As they made contact, Leslie felt a flash of bodily insecurity - conscious of herself, her bareness, and the sounds and movements she made. Only one way to escape it: she forgot herself, getting lost in him instead. It was strange to feel him touch her without the casual pricking of his nails, without the soft bites (or the hard ones, for that matter). Alastor too was unused to it; there was some hesitation as he raked her flesh with his fingertips... but she embraced it. She was glad for this, to be held tenderly. No more violence. He ran her ear through his hands like a magician’s silks, speaking into it... “Poor girl. Poor Leslie.”

“No more biting,” she pleaded.

“We shook on it, didn’t we?” Alastor said something else, quieter this time. Something about making them square… or making  _ her _ squirm… it was hard to hear over the bayou and radio fuzz. Something about doing what she couldn’t do herself.  _ Fine, fine, fine…  _ Leslie felt his mouth against her neck, moving down her chest, her stomach. Then she caught that metallic smell, and felt his ghostly teeth in her shoulder, and he had to calm her down.

“Don’t bite me-!”

“I won’t,” he said, and then that key phrase of his: “Let go, darling. I’ve got you.”

Another stab of fear as he approached her legs; another moment of reassurance. Leslie’s emotions tumbled over and over like clothes in a dryer, but she tried to relax, and told him to go on. She needed him.  _ More of this, just this. _ It was very slow progress, and in the end, she had to take his left hand and grip it tight. Whatever happened, the option to hurt him in kind could get her through this. She felt his tongue-tip skirting the seam between her leg and torso, and gasped stupidly. Reassurance. Kisses on her thighs. Her body tensed, waiting, wanting, as she tried to believe his promise that the danger had passed.

“May I?” he asked.

God help her… “Yes, Al.”

When his wicked tongue landed, right where she wanted it, she almost snapped in two. Curses came spilling from her mouth; she reached for his antlers with her free hand. Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck, _ he remembered. He remembered what she’d shown him. He felt so good, and soft, and wet. Though Leslie was locked into place, she praised his sweet restraint, then cursed under the mounting pressure.

For a while, he eased off but kept swirling -  _ oh no _ \- in little circles. A hitched throat sound from Alastor became a sonorous hum, and then she was really in trouble. Her leg gave a stupid little kick. Leslie came closer to the edge on that resonating buzz - thank God she was out of her mind now, truly out of it, thrilling instead of fearing.  _ More of this, only this, I promise I’ll be good… _ As she imagined his tongue moving low, burrowing inside, that was what tipped her over. This time it was striking, almost too much, and her body lifted and crashed, lifted and crashed.

In the midst of this, Alastor wrenched his head free of her legs. There came a grunt which was half-pain, half-something else, taking Leslie out of her pleasant throes. She sat up and saw his teeth, sunk into his right arm.

A beat of silence.

Alastor’s eyes were half-closed in a sleepy-sexy kind of way. He unclamped, showed how shallow the marks were, and reached for her shin. Soothing strokes. “It’s alright,” he said. “Just what I felt like. It’s quite alright.”

She must have fainted. Exhausted, or overwhelmed… or both. When she came to, her left hand was empty. Alastor lay with his head pinned against her collar. Listening for a pulse. 

_ He kept his word,  _ she told herself.  _ He didn’t hurt you…  _ but her chattering resumed. The thought of it was so, so awful. Once more he tried to settle her, kissing her, and she tasted her cunt, with some of the blood from before. Such a well-traveled tongue he had, all of a sudden. 

“I could sleep,” Alastor remarked. They swapped positions: him laying flat, Leslie curled beside him. “So could you, I bet.”

“Here?” 

No answer, but she felt a stirring in his ribs, and music played from his inner radio. The Al Bowlly record from their first meeting. Something felt wrong. Something was polluting this rosy afterglow, and that in itself was wrong. Shouldn’t she be happy? Grateful that he went out of his way for her pleasure? Her mind was racing, wondering why he  _ had _ to bite his arm in such a hurry. Wondering if it was deliberate, to scare her. 

“Sleep,” he said. 

Leslie did her best to obey. She closed her eyes and focused on the barest sensations of her world: the rise and fall of Alastor’s chest; the scent of his skin; the never-ending calls of myriad critters in the distance. In half an hour, she’d apologize for her nerves, he’d return her to the hotel for the rest of a sleepless night… and if she was lucky, he wouldn’t think to clean the blood from her dress, or vanish what was in the pocket.


	48. Not Like The Movies

When Alastor dropped her home at the end of their too-eventful night, Leslie asked for some time to process and make herself sensible. She didn’t want to go to pieces in public and make people suspicious, she said, and he agreed. 

They shared a final rusty kiss at her door, and she was alone at last. No more red light, no more chirping and croaking. She backed against the cold, comforting stone of the wall. What had happened? What had she just allowed to happen?  _ It wasn’t all bad, not by a long way, but…  _ Leslie’s hand went to her shoulder. Healed, like nothing. Still hers. She should have cried, but the tears didn’t come. Instead she took a shower, exhausted and glad to get everything off: the sweat, the remaining dried blood, and every trace of Alastor. 

Characters from movies always sat under the shower spray in times of crisis. For this reason, she abstained. It was too clichéd... and besides, her sister once got a UTI from doing something similar at a public pool.

Leslie kept the dress with her in the bathroom, hung over the curtain rail with the handkerchief still in the pocket. Something for Rosie, if she decided to take her offer. That would be dangerous. Sure, it might get Leslie out of this bind, and give her some powers, but Alastor would be immediately suspicious. Nobody else got that close to him, except for his barber. Nobody else could give Rosie what she wanted.

Then, atop the crumpled dress on the dusty floor beneath her bed, Leslie lay still, quiet. She made herself a twistedly idealized fantasy version of the night’s events, and waited for morning.

o - o - o - o - o

In the following days, Leslie coped better than she expected. While her previous traumas in Hell affected her quite directly, she felt herself burying what happened in the bayou, and that was fine with her. She didn’t need to dwell. Denial was fine. She was quite good at it. 

It was tricky during dance sessions - which recalled her brush with oblivion in Alastor’s office - and it got trickier still when she actually saw him. As he roamed the halls as usual in his confident way, antagonizing the guests, it was hard to tell anything had changed. Happy, smiling and singing was his default. The signs were subtle - practically invisible, if you didn’t know what to look for. And most people  _ wouldn’t _ look; they wouldn’t think him capable of such subtlety. 

During one of Leslie’s teaching sessions, he lurked in the doorway, watching her, picking his teeth with the claw of his pinky finger. Reminding her of their sharpness. His eyes sparkled almost imperceptibly, like a gem stuck in some stony riverbed. So hard to catch, but Leslie saw it. _Oh yes, little bunny..._ _I have known you so very, very well_...

He was a goddamn panther when he wanted to be.

On this day, annoyed at the provocation, she gave a pretend idle stretch, and rubbed the side of her neck, close to her shoulder, like it was sore. Maybe she _ did _ project weakness, but she could at least tease him a little, knowing exactly what he desired about her.  _ Let him think about biting, just when it wasn’t possible.  _

Another stupid decision. Leslie saw his eyes narrow before he swept off; Alastor would get her back for that little display.

o - o - o - o - o

Leslie began to sleep exclusively in low-traffic areas of the hotel. Usually she picked an armchair in the library, or curled up by the fireplace in the lobby. A different place every time. It wasn’t that she was  _ scared, _ she told herself; Leslie just wanted some control over the meetings with Alastor. Her room was linked to his, after all - it was too easy for him to come a-creeping and find her in her bed.

When she did sleep, she dreamt about him. If she was lucky, they were together in some cozy, darkened space with a glowing exit. Mutually exploring, making heat, swallowing lava. There  _ were _ good memories from the bayou, buried in her subconscious, and sometimes the theatre director in her brain gave them center stage.

More often though, Leslie was bitten, maimed, even torn in half by Alastor in full demon form, and she’d scream awake, covered in terror-sweat, with a sense of horrible guilt she couldn’t pin down. It happened tonight, on a chaise longue in the eighth-floor hallway, and a demon yelled at her to shut the fuck up. Leslie hugged her knees, listening to a nearby ticking clock to bring her back to reality.

The grandfather clock in Alastor’s office… was it still standing silent, after he stopped it?

Thursday night. The weekend would soon be here. 

o - o - o - o - o

When Decider was still Karlton, kicking the habit had been absolute death. Lellybean did the right thing, of course she did, but she had no fucking idea. She didn’t know what a fish-hook in the mouth that stuff really was, long term. Big deal, she quit drinking after college. Big fucking deal.

“Some people just  _ need _ to be on,” he told her. Yeah, pushing it, but he was in a rotten mood. “Fucking creative types? The level of stuff those guys need to function. Denis Leary. What, that was energy drinks? Bullshit. He couldn’t have done his thing without the-”

“What is your thing?” Leslie snapped. “I don’t see you doing anything, except killing yourself and running through our fucking money.”

Jordan’s money, mostly, but he didn’t say. 

“I’m doing it, aren’t I? Haven’t taken a fucking thing!” he snapped back. He was sweating like a mule, and the roll of toilet tissue he pressed to his face was barely helping. “Why do you gotta make me feel like shit? A’ight? I know I’m a fucking waste of skin. Like everybody says.”

“If you bring up your mother again, I swear to God…” She got up, dragging her hair out of her face. Somehow it looked ashier when she was upset. She turned and walked away.

Karlton stood. “Where- what are you doing?”

“Are you going to be like this whenever I leave the room?”

“Maybe!” he yelled, suddenly spiteful. “That’s you, now, isn’t it? Li’l Miss Drastic! You happy I’m like this? You get what you wanted? I  _ sure _ hope so!”

“FUCK YOU!” She stormed towards the bathroom, her progress only halted by the toilet roll he threw towards her head. It bounced harmlessly off the wall; at first she was startled, her arms raised and her hands bunched into fists. Then she glared, seized the roll and pitched it back at him like a baseball. It hit him on the nose, and left a trail of paper halfway across the room. 

A bad day, honestly.

But that was then, and Karl had deserved the venom. Fuck, Lellybean was doing the right thing. All Jordy ever did was kick about and suggest they quell the boredom in the same old way. All his family did was pretend he didn’t exist. Leslie carried him through the fucking fire, and that was love, real love.

Now in death, he was dealing with his mistakes yet again, trying to make things right. But he had faith in the hotel, and in himself this time. It’d be just like a movie: clean up, regain her respect, maybe get back together, he hoped. He hoped. 

Naturally, Decider shunned his old vices, but there were a few  _ legal _ substances he wanted, to put the psychological hankering to bed. So he headed for the nearby smoke shop; there were some strains of kratom that might help. Cutting through a red-brick alleyway, he was surprised when a tall figure poofed into his path. Easy to tell what this guy’s favorite color was; he was drenched in it head to toe, and carried both a cane and a leather suitcase.

“Hello there!” the figure said, in a fuzzy yet spirited voice. “Decider, isn’t it?”

“Uh…” Decider nodded minutely. “Do I know you?”

“Co-owner of the hotel!”

Relief. “Oh, great! Er, you wanna get out of this alleyway to talk?” He tried to move past the stranger, who matched his sidestep. 

“Hmmm, no! I think we’ll stay here awhile.”

Now Decider was concerned. The taller guy’s smile remained friendly, but his eyes had that fuckhead cop,  _ your-ass-is-mine  _ kind of look. “Listen,” Decider said, before the guy flicked him in the mouth, catching his lower lip. “Hey! A simple shush would’ve-”

“How have you been?” the figure asked, leaning in closer and closer with that creepy smile. “A little strangled? Wrestling with your conscience, or maybe you’re just missing that sweet nectar of yours! You know they have it in mechanical dispensers down here? This is a paradise for zealots like you, if you remove people from the equation. Sartre was right, you know!”

“Zealot? The fuck are you talking about, man? I’m clean.”

“Oh, I’m sure. You could even stay that way, if you had the support… but that won’t be the case. And you know it, don’t you? She as good as said.”

Decider took a moment to process. “Are you… talking about Lellybean? You don’t know a thing, man. She’s my girl.”

He laughed. “False!”

“Fuck you, we’re working on it! She can make her own decisions... In fact, she’d be pretty mad, knowing you’re speaking for her. That’s presumptuous.” He squared up to the guy. “I don’t care how tall you are. Fuckin’ stuffy old white dude, what would you know about Leslie?”

“First of all,” the guy said, “don’t presume my background, and second, you must forget about her. I know you, Decider! You placed an each-way bet with women you claimed to love. That was cowardly, and look where it’s got you. I don’t think you belong at the hotel!” He slung the suitcase at Decider’s feet. “Your belongings. Consider yourself evicted.”

How did this guy know so much? Every sentence out of his mouth was like a new confusing slap in the face. Then it clicked. 

“Ah fuck,” Decider said, tumbling back. “You’re him, aren’t you? The new guy.”

For a second, the prick’s eyebrows fluttered, and Decider was gratified to have dented his armor, even a bit. “I don’t follow,” he said.

“Yeah, you do. She told me, OK? In love with someone else, wouldn’t say who. No wonder, huh? Abusive son-of-a-cunt like you! Fuck you! You ain’t kicking me out.”

“Already have,” the guy countered. “Don’t worry! She’s in good hands.”

“So we’re fighting then.”

“What did you say before? She did mention… Ah! ‘Like Novocain for a broken tooth’!”

Decider already had his fists raised, but the guy pointed his cane, and something socked Decider hard in the mouth. A bright spark of pain sent him falling to the ground. He swallowed something hard and pointed. Tasted blood. As he groaned, air rushed against the exposed pulp of his front incisor. His head rang. Decider doubled over, screaming with his mouth closed. Somehow, despite all that, he heard the other guy’s closing remark.

“Perhaps demon teeth regenerate,” the guy said, leaning condescendingly. “Perhaps not! Perhaps only if they’re fully dislodged. You have no idea! My question is this: what is a homeless piece of scum like you going to do about it?” 

More muffled screaming.

He tossed Decider a couple of hellar bills. “Something to get you started,” he said. “The machines are that way.”


	49. A Third Thing Fucking Explodes

On Friday morning, Leslie jogged as usual, taking a considerable detour to meet Angel Dust outside Porn Studios. Though he’d had a busy night, he seemed fresh enough, as if from a recent shower. Meanwhile, Leslie was damp from sweat, and sported a skinned knee after slipping on some ice. Winter came early in the Pride Ring.

“Shoulda changed shoes,” Angel muttered as he minced around a frozen puddle. “Warnin’ ya now, if I go flyin’ in these heels, I’m takin’ ya down with me.” 

She nodded. According to Angel, he never went barefoot due to insecurities about his ‘weird spider feet’. He’d show everything else, he told her, just not those. Leslie knew it was true, because she’d scrubbed through some of his adult films, out of morbid curiosity - cringing all the way - and sure enough, the shoes stayed on. Even now, she regretted searching those videos. Knowing Angel as well as she did, to see him so exposed felt like an invasion of privacy… and the hyperbolized moaning didn’t exactly help her discomfort.

Leslie returned her thoughts to here and now. Anecdotally, she said, “I looked this up on Voogle. In those heels, you’re almost as tall as the tallest human who ever lived.”

“Fuck, really?” Angel seemed to like this fact, picking up the pace as they walked on. “Guess I got used ta it. Hey, _you’re_ shootin’ up. What, ya gotta be 5’4” now?”

She nodded. “National average for US women.” When Leslie considered her growth of six inches in one year, she thought of Mr Hyde: hadn’t he begun as small and underdeveloped too, representing Jekyll’s unflexed evils?

“I thought ya was half-English,” Angel said.

“Yeah, my mom’s side. Never been, don’t know the average,” she responded. As they passed an office block with tinted windows, Leslie caught the reflection of an apparent zombie, lumping along with its head low. It was wearing the same greyish tracksuit as her, and had the same infernally stupid ears. God, how pathetic. Time was, a brisk jog would leave her revitalized, not complete the picture of total exhaustion. Leslie tried to keep her head raised, and focused on the clop-clop-clop of Angel’s shoes against the sidewalk.

“I dunno any fun facts,” he said. “Uh… lemme… wait, I got one!”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. So ‘pparently, don’t quote me on this, ya can bite a guy’s finger off with the same force it takes to bite a carrot.”

A stab of dark surprise. “Really? Jesus,” she said.

“Gruesome, ain’t it?” Angel japed, giving her a playful push. “Someone like you can handle that pretty good, huh?”

Another stab. “Ummm…” Her chest tightened, and she took a far-too-shallow breath. What? Someone like her? There was a bench coming up; Leslie started speed-walking, and yet doubted she would make it. 

“Les, wh… whazzamatta?” The clopping slowed and Angel’s voice grew worried. “Uh, I’m sorry. Hey! It was a stupid joke, I take it back.”

Again, she felt Alastor’s beartrap teeth in her flesh. That hard shoulder-punch with irregular shards of pain. The trickle of blood down her neck. The pull and snap. Having reached the bench, she dropped into the crash position, and she skipped right over being embarrassed because she had to breathe first, she had to breathe or she’d die.

“Woah, woah, woah! What the fuck, Les? Ya OK?” Angel trotted over and placed a hand on her back; she flinched away. Angel removed the hand just as quickly. “Hey, hey,” he said, “don’t panic, it’s a’right. You’re doin’ jus’ fine, ya hear me?”

 _No, no no no._ She wasn’t fine. And she had to come up with a lie, quick. “Had a nightmare last night,” she stammered. 

“Nightmare?”

“Uh-huh. It’s still…”

Frowning - possibly unconvinced - he walked in front of her and crouched, rubbing her arms. “Hey, you’re OK now. Deep breaths,” he said, demonstrating. “In for three, out for four, yeah?” They breathed together, and Leslie tried to stop shaking, tried to ignore the new, cold sweat that came over her. For a good minute, they ran through this breathing exercise, and Leslie wondered where Angel picked it up. Just the kind of thing that could help Husk through a flashback… that would explain it. 

“Sorry,” she said.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, hun, I’ve heard ya havin’ night terrors. They suck,” Angel consoled her. “Fuck, that hit ya fast!”

As Leslie regained her breath, she was struck by the silence of the deserted early-morning street, and the looming pink radiance of the building they’d come from. That inciting remark… she had to know. “What does that mean, ‘someone like me’?” she asked.

A self-conscious wince, and Angel cast his gaze to the floor. “Ahh, y’know, the fuckin’... the bunny thing, carrots? It was a stupid fuckin’ joke.” Then he looked up, saw the flash of understanding in Leslie’s eyes. “Wait, what the hell else didja think I meant?” She couldn’t answer, and started rapid-blinking to hold back the tears, and prayed the teeth wouldn’t come back. Somehow Angel knew. His face hardened. “Les,” he said, “did somethin’ bad happen with Bambi?”

“What? No! No, nothing!”

“I’m gonna kill him.” Angel stood, ready to stomp back to the hotel in a hundred steps or less. “That’s it, I’m gonna kill him.”

“Angel, stop! Wait!” Leslie called, and she grabbed one of his arms. Clearly nothing about her demeanor suggested things were fine… but she had to smooth this over. She couldn’t let Angel do something drastic when there was so little contracted time left. “Angel, sit with me. I have to tell you something.”

With an odd, slack-jawed stare, Angel let her drag him back to the bench. Two arms crossed, two on his hips. Now she had to pull herself together for the purpose of reassuring him, and so soon after a panic attack, it was a strange position to be in.

“OK,” Leslie began. “Last week on Hallowe’en night, Bambi and I went for a walk, by the bayou.”

Angel draped his ridiculously lank legs across the sidewalk. “What bayou?”

“He has that door-portal in his office,” she reminded him, “and it can open onto someplace in Louisiana, apparently. He was in a good mood that night, so we paid a visit.”

“He’s got…” Angel shook his head. “A’right, puttin’ a pin in that,” he said, miming it, but immediately added, “Fuck, imagine goin’ back upstairs! Even if it _is_ the South. I’d give my left nut for that!”

Leslie shrugged. “Guess it’s just an overlord thing-”

“Ehhhh, not all a’them. Likely not even half.”

“Or, uh, the I.M.P. guy? He has access. I didn’t think it was unusual...”

“Nah, I doubt Bambi’s _that_ fuckin’ powerful. Maybe it’s simulated, or… wait, hold up, was this like 30s Louisiana, or the here and now?”

“How do I know? All lakes look the same to me. The frogs croaked with the same accent.”

“Yeah, I gottit, stupid question,” Angel said, then lightly slapped his own face, possibly for getting derailed. Perchance he was buzzed. “What I’m gettin’ at is… draggin’ ya ta some bayou for real? Sounds more’n a little dangerous, ‘specially if he still had his weird whateva mojo.”

Of course, Alastor _had_ kept his powers in the human world - at the very least, he could shift into that demon form, the one Leslie felt more than she saw. She feigned ignorance, not to alarm Angel further. “I dunno. Anyway,” she said, “we took a stroll to the least muddy spot we could find, and uh… we fucked, basically.” 

It sounded strange in the morning air with a panicked tear running over her lip. Angel’s eyebrows lifted. “No.”

“Yeah.”

“That early?” Angel said. “I figured - I know it’s dragged on for months a’ready, but...” Again, he slapped himself, put his agenda aside. “So… what happened? Why’re ya in this state?”

“It’s a lot,” she admitted, “to process, but it wasn’t bad. It went well... really well, in some ways. I mean, thank God I wrote what I did, right?” and she gave a nervous laugh. “So yeah, that happened… it’s a lot. It was a whole thing, but I’m fine.”

“And?”

“And?”

“You’re bein’ cagey. What else? Les, I’m sorry, but there’s no way that’s all he did to ya.”

“Why not?” she challenged him, stupidly, pathetically. “I mean, just maybe I’m desirable to someone. Maybe that hadn’t occurred to you.”

“Don’t even. I’m not sayin’ you’re undesirable, I’m sayin’ you’re _fuckin’ delusional_ if you think Al gives a flyin’ fuck about ya! Bambi, I mean. Shit. But he don’t care about ya, Les, besides the stuff that directly benefits him. Maybe it’s good sometimes, maybe he makes ya feel special or whateva the fuck, but I know in my fuckin’ bones he’s got ulterior motives. And now all ‘a sudden, you’re comin’ off fuckin’ shell-shocked! So what else happened in that fuckin’ swamp?”

The tone of Angel’s voice honestly scared her. Still she resisted. “Any more F words?” she quipped, even as the shaking resumed. 

“For the sake’a piss, just tell me what he did!” Angel cried, quite flippant in his frustration. “You’re my friend, Les, I gotta know. Was it _just_ mental, like freaking ya out, or’d he bite chunks outta ya?”

Leslie’s emotions betrayed her, and she buried her face in her ears. “Stop yelling at me, please! I can’t fucking bear it.” The tears came: loud, sobbing, shameful. “Fine, yes, yes, he did, but I wanted it! I asked for it, no, please, please, don’t- don’t talk to Bambi,” she begged, holding the hem of his jacket. “Don’t do anything. It’s three weeks. I don’t know what he’ll do if we confront him. We’ll get in trouble!”

Now she was a blubbering mess, Angel had to let some of the anger go. He stooped to hug her, but still he muttered close to her ear. “I knew Bambi was up ta somethin’ rotten,” he said. “Fuck, Les, I’m so angry. He makes my fuckin’ piss fizz.”

“Three weeks,” Leslie repeated, “I’ll be fine.”

Angel broke the hug, meeting her eye with earnestness. “Stay in my room,” he said, “in the studio.”

“Huh?”

“I ain’t wild about ya bein’ in the same buildin’ as Val, but… it’s safer’n my hotel room, in terms’a where Bambi’d check. Ya can sleep, ya can keep some distance.”

Leslie shushed him. Across the road, a street lamp flickered, drawing her attention to a vagrant imp, huddled in a doorway of a drugstore, and she was staring right at them. Leslie was struck with a nasty thought: could Alastor have a network of homeless informers working for him? It sounded ridiculous, but surely someone like him needed his ear to the wall at all times. 

And oh God, Angel had slipped up. She backed away from him. “You called Bambi by his name,” she said. “Oh shit. Oh fuck, what if he heard? What if he knows now?”

Before she could dissolve into tears again, Angel took her shoulders and bent down, closer to her level. The pink light of Porn Studios barely crested over his (also pink) coif of hair. “Listen,” he said, “I will make sure - don’t look at her, look at me - I will make sure Bambi don’t bite ya like that again. We ain’t gonna get ourselves killed, but we’ll keep ya safe. There’s no way he’ll come anywhere near—”

That was the last she heard, before the ground was shook by an oddly familiar echoing blast. 

Then another. Then several. Breaking glass.

“Whaaaaat the fuck?”

Startled, the two of them twisted round and saw clouds of black smoke, and pink shards raining in the distance. The skeleton of Porn Studios, its metal and stone, was collapsing. The sound of it was tremendous, like an ocean wave, and so _loud._ Leslie and Angel jogged backwards as the structure slowly toppled; the homeless imp, too, was on her feet. 

“—GOTTA GO, C’MON, WE GOTTA MOVE!!”

Leslie backwards-jogged faster, but her eyes fixed on the building in frightened awe. With increasing momentum, it crumbled to earth. Debris chunks the size of her fist flew from the smoke. One hit her collarbone. She squeaked, tumbling onto the asphalt. More smoke. More debris. The building’s topmost floors smashed into the place opposite, and then the cloud obscured her view. It was so thick, she couldn’t breathe.

“LES! **_LES!_ **”

The final almighty crash which seemed never to end. Then, faintly, a sound of wires whipping to and fro. Angel came to her, grabbed her waist, and she felt the elastic potential in his legs - jumping-spider legs. They sprang impossibly skywards. Leslie shrieked as broken power lines slashed by, barely missing her and Angel. They landed on somebody’s fire escape, and pressed themselves against the brickwork until gravity finished having its way with the skyscraper. 

When it was over, Leslie had tinnitus, and the blaring car alarms around them were muffled, practically underwater. She hugged the wall, gingerly tried to move her shoulder and hissed. _Nope, no no no. Broken collarbone. Take it easy._ She swiveled - carefully - to check on Angel, as he untangled his limbs and settled on the steel grating like a sack of coal. He began scraping micro-debris off his tongue. 

“Fuck,” Angel lamented, eyes streaming, “ahhh, Jesus, Mercury was in there! What the _hell_ just fuckin’ happened?”

Leslie had no answers. Just another day of senseless destruction in Hell. All she could think to do was take Angel’s hand and squeeze it, as they stared at the ruins of Porn Studios.


	50. The Nobility of Suffering

For several hours, the power was out in Pentagram City - and not because of an apoplectic overlord this time. In fact, both Vox and Valentino fell victim to the implosion, according to 666 News. Vox was photographed crawling from the scene as sparks flew from his busted face; and Valentino was trapped under a sea of rubble in one of the studio dungeons. 

Leslie and Angel Dust watched the broadcast on her phone, in her bedroom, the moment power and wifi were restored. 

“Good,” Angel nodded, choking the phone. “I hope he fuckin’ stays buried. Fuckin… fuckin’ sick rapist, _waste of fuckin’ skin.”_ Then he sighed and let the phone rest on his knees. “He won’t, though. They’ll dig him up, an’ he’ll find some other place ta film… an’ the rest.”

“Is it normal for basements to cave in like that?” Leslie wondered, sounding calmer than she felt. “During demolitions? I mean, the building kind of… went sideways.” 

“Uh, y’know, construction ain’t really my area.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“But it is suspicious,” Angel conceded, chewing his tongue. “Fuckin’... whoeva decides ta launch a territorial dispute with Val, they’re askin’ for trouble.” 

“You don’t think it could be Cherri?” Leslie asked. 

“Nah, her explosions don’t look like that. An’ I’d know, ‘cause we blew up a club once before - didn’t exactly deliva me from the wrath a’Pharoah, y’know?”

Seeing her friend so dejected, Leslie took his hand again; it seemed to help him a little. She wished there was something she could do for Angel. If she had _any_ power… if the swell of anger she felt on his behalf could only manifest, she’d take Valentino and blow his atoms so far apart, they’d never reform.

And Alastor… maybe he would be next. 

“Uh, Les?”

She realized she was crushing Angel’s fingers and let go. “Shit, sorry! Sorry.” 

“I’d betta call her,” Angel said of Cherri, and rotated his phone, “get her outta Val’s way, jus’ ta be safe. She can stay… maybe with you or Husk, someone with less of a connection. Then you can stay with me… or… I can stay… How’s your collarbone, by the way? Feelin’ a’right?”

She nodded, almost impatiently. “Tell me something happy,” she said. “You and Husk… how is that going?”

Angel brightened somewhat. “Pretty good,” he admitted. “Used ta be, he’d try an’ rush inta physical shit, and we jus’ wound up in a pity puddle, all the rest of it. Now, it’s kinda…” He smiled, motioning with his fingers, “th’other way around. I think Huskie needs time ta settle, y’know? Realize I ain’t goin’ nowhere, an’... he can’t disappoint me. Like ever. He don’t know half the good things about him… way he tells stories, way he sings…”

“Husk sings?”

“Fuck yeah, he does!” Angel crossed his arms, gazing fondly at nothing. “Guy makes ya feel wiser an’ more fulfilled jus’ sittin’ next to him. He’s lived. He’s been so fuckin’ much, an’ he still is.”

He and Leslie exchanged a look, and Leslie found herself telling a story of her own. One rainstormy evening when she was alive, she and Karl experimented with food, throwing leftover pork on a pizza to see what happened. 

“Fuck me!” said Karl with his mouth full.

“You don’t like it?”

“Nah babe, it’s… weirdly good! Goddamn. I’d have this pizza’s babies, tee-bee-aitch. You try it.”

He was right. “Oh yeah. Must be the rosemary. Also, don’t say tbh in real life.”

“Irl?” Karl grinned. “I shouldn’t say tbh irl?”

“Karl, I swear to God.”

“Or my gf will say ttfn, lmao.”

“Karl!” He tickled her. “Ahh, no! Stop!”

They transitioned to play-fighting on the kitchen floor, as Karl wound Leslie up even further. “Yeeeah, there you go, babe! Crush me with them thighs!”

“For fuck’s sake!” Leslie squeaked, rolled and caught his arms. “Keep tickling me and I’ll… _pizza will fly,_ put it that way.”

“Don’t waste pizza!” he said, horrified, but he gave her space. They lay there on the tile, smiling like idiots. “We’re doing OK, aren’t we babe?”

“Yeah. Hey, Karl?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we get married, like, just a little bit?” Leslie asked, then pressed on quickly, “I know, broken record. But it’s like you said. We’ve been through some shitty times already and came out OK. We’re a good team. Plus, don’t you want the tax benefits?”

Karl gave a mouth shrug. “Tax benefits sound pretty sweet,” he said, then sighed. “I’m thinking about it.”

“Really?”

“Well, before I say yes,” he declared, scooping her up, “we gotta practice the threshold carry thing.”

Leslie put on fancy airs and graces. “Am I light as a feather?”

“You’re 150lbs of muscle, Lellybean. This is a workout,” Karl said. They passed from the kitchen to the den without much trouble, and then into the next hallway. “While we’re at it,” he said, “we should practice the honeymoon as well.”

“What about the pizza?” Leslie said between smooches.

“Eh. It’ll keep. Wasn’t that great anyway.”

As Leslie finished her story, she saw Angel’s expression, and realized she’d never discussed these things with him before. Not like this. “Anyway,” she said, “that was a nice cozy day… before the truth came out, y’know, down here. You think you know someone...”

Angel was quiet for a second. “Hey Les,” he said, “did Bambi put that nonsense in your head, that ya asked for it?”

“No,” she replied sourly. “I told him to do what he did.”

“An’ if he made the deal with your sista instead’a you, an’ she had the same story…”

Acid spurted up her throat. Even the thought of Amelia with Alastor’s clawed hand on her shoulder made Leslie sick. She leaned forward. “No,” she admitted, “I’d never… But she’s smarter than me. I’m just…”

“A’right, let’s not panic again,” he said, rubbing her back, and Leslie heard an oinking sound: Angel’s message tone. It almost made her laugh. “That’s Cherri,” he said. “I gotta go get her. Text me, OK? We’ll figure out where you’ll sleep.”

And then he had to go.

o - o - o - o - o

Leslie later told Angel that she had insomnia, and planned to spend the night in the library. It was a half-truth. 

For two hours she lay still and agonized over her first weeks at the hotel, back when her biggest problems were finding a pursuit; keeping her head down until she was redeemed; having a shitty restaurateur boss; and suppressing her crush on Alastor… and god damn it, she should have done a better fucking job! She should have left him well alone!

 _If you believe in the power of redemption,_ he’d said - to excuse his history of sadism! - _you can’t confine people to their past actions._ And Leslie had accepted that! What an idiot! She wanted to fucking strangle herself for letting bygones be bygones. Alastor _never_ deserved the benefit of the doubt. He _never_ deserved her forgiveness.

As always, the anger was followed by guilt. What had Angel said? Alastor only appreciated things about her that benefited him. Well, Leslie was just the same, just as… selective. She could ignore almost everything about Alastor, if only he’d fucking touch her. It was despicable. She was despicable. 

And it was time to go see him again. 

When she entered his office, he sat on his couch beside the record player, almost obscured by a cloud of cigarette smoke. It reminded her of the dust cloud from before, and she knew by now, Alastor smoked to celebrate something. A recent victory.

“You didn’t.”

“Consider the debt repaid,” he said. “He survives, of course, but if he doesn’t take _this_ for a warning… Well!” Alastor blew a trio of smoke rings and smiled at her through the center gap. 

She shook her head. Dull surprise became resignation. “How did you even…? It’s so fucking off-brand for you.” 

This he chose not to answer. The smile remained, but softened at the edges. _Did you miss me?_ it said. Leslie remembered how ashy his mouth would taste, and it made her swallow. When Alastor beckoned, she visualized a tiny version of herself, taking the handle of the door in Leslie’s Brain and walking out. Then she got on all fours and crawled towards him. She crawled further than he expected, and knelt before him, fussing with his belt.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

She shrugged. Wasn’t it obvious? He took her by the shoulders, said something about the freedom of outdoors. Behind her, a door creaking open, and the warm breath of the bayou. 

“No, no no,” she said. “Let me… It was one of my conditions. I’ve wanted to, since we agreed to all this.”

He sighed and disappeared the cigarette. “It can’t wait?”

Leslie shook her head, sneaking kisses against his waist. _Don’t think about last time. Don’t think about last time._

“Darling, it’s obvious what your game is. We’ll have more fun if I attend to you,” he said, holding her chin. “It won’t be so bad.” It was chilling, how he could say such awful things in that seductive way of his, and it still held a tiny bit of power. Leslie wished she could do the same. Maybe if she willed it hard enough… maybe…

Alastor’s head tilted almost curiously, and he dragged his thumb along her lip, then guided it into her mouth. She let him. It was fine. It was all fine. 

“How I would carve up those shoulders,” he said.

Leslie removed the thumb. “OK,” she said, “scratch me if you want, but just… let me do this. You know I can’t hurt you, right?” Leslie’s hands shook as she went on undressing him. “I can’t. I wouldn’t.”

It took a moment for Alastor to contemplate, and his eyes drifted far away, like he was remembering something. Finally, mercifully, Leslie heard the office door swing shut. _Thank God!_

“I believe you,” he said, without the static. 

His fingers scuttled over her back as she came up to kiss him, and tasted the ash, sparking memories from months ago. It was nice for now. When he broke away, Alastor produced and drank from the same blue tincture bottle she’d seen last time. Leslie presumed it was one of two things: demon-Viagra, or some kind of Don’t-Rip-Leslie-To-Pieces juice, and she didn’t want to know which. She winced when his nails dug into her shoulders, drawing blood; but it excited him, and that was an electrifying feeling. _Her_ blood did this, _her_ pained flesh made him come alive in her hand. She had to believe it, sinful as it was, because it would get her through this. 

There was little foreplay, and Alastor wasn’t so different from old boyfriends; after some sloppy, ingratiating motions of her lips and tongue, he called her a witch and began steering her head like it was his idea in the first place. His posture changed, and she felt his legs bracing slightly. _Good._ His hand on her shoulder continued to grip, hard, and still she shut out the pain, until her skin _really_ broke. A noise rang in her throat, high-pitched. Alastor leaned forward with impossible flexibility to drink her blood.

It wasn’t so bad. It was better than before. He was allowing this, and responding so wonderfully. Leslie actually enjoyed herself, pulled out all her tricks - lapping at different speeds, twisting her head - and thought about how dangerous and smoky and truly gorgeous he was, thought it so loud that the whole hotel could have heard it, _making_ it make a difference. Still, he clawed and drank, and the tension in him was palpable, winding up to something drastic. Briefly, she considered easing off, keeping him on the edge, just to give him a taste of the frustration he’d put her through… Then her very soul petrified as Alastor worked his teeth against her shoulder. He said something. Barely-intelligible French. Something about oil.

He wouldn’t bite her. Not when she had him like this. Surely he wouldn’t. 

Leslie whimpered, sped up and braced for the worst, and thank fuck, it never happened: Alastor only groaned and gave up. For maybe three seconds he was caught up in myriad sensations, raking her spine with his claws. He came quite forcefully, into the back of her throat, which was an uncomfortable spot to catch it. Leslie focused on his collapse, his sighs, that residual pulse against her lips, his mouth against the bloody scratches across her skin.

So much for indifference. 

Everything was alright. She felt accomplishment, relief… she felt irritation in her gullet, and had to break her mouth-seal in order to cough furiously.

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t—aaack!” she spluttered. What began as an unpleasant peppery taste was now pure needle-pricking pain, like she’d snorted a line of wasabi. She fell away, blind and choking uncontrollably. “Christ! Auuugh…!”

“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry.”

“Why didn’t you _warn_ me? Oh my God… See a fucking doctor!” Leslie tried to ignore his laughter as she crouched on the rug. “Now I know why my _insides_ were stinging after you fucked me.”

“After I what?” he clarified, seeming to like the implication - but she refused to repeat herself. If that poisonous wretch wanted cursing, he could do it himself. 

Leslie felt another flush of guilt as Alastor, now decent, pulled her onto the couch beside him. In silence, his hands rested on her torn back and healed the damage they’d wrought; his still-flushed neck was a warm alcove to bury her face in and recover. She shouldn’t feel _any_ comfort from him, but she did. 

“Such a vulnerable creature you are,” Alastor said, “so suited to being prey. No-one suffers like you, my dear - and it’s noble to suffer! Do you understand?” He ran her ears through one hand, and used the other to play with her tail. “I’m lucky to experience the fight your body puts up… that dancing in your blood! I’m lucky to taste your fear, break you and then remake you when we’re done.”

“What poetry,” Leslie muttered. He laughed. He was in an excellent mood today. “Al, can I ask you something and you’ll tell me the honest truth?”

“That depends.”

She solemnly pressed her nose into his hair. “Here’s my question,” she asked, and the answer would decide whether or not she saw Rosie, “when did you know you wanted to eat me?”

Leslie heard the grin in his voice. “The day I saw you crying by the front desk,” he said.


	51. From Bad To Worse

When Leslie reached _F̶r̶a̶n̶k̶l̶i̶n̶ and Rosie’s Emporium,_ the metal shutter on the shop exterior was halfway down, and she had to run and knock heavily on the entrance. Luckily, someone inside heard, and the shutter stopped moving, then reversed. _Thank God!_ Leslie thought. _That was a close one._ She took out her handkerchief: the one she’d kept in a ziploc bag, in either her bra or the inside of her sock, since Hallowe’en night. 

_Here goes._

Though she entered with a heavier tread than usual, to give the store owner an idea of her whereabouts, the bell ringing over the doorway made Rosie look up regardless.

“Hi,” Leslie said, “it’s me. You sold me some shoes once.”

“Ah yes,” Rosie smiled. “Hello there! Sorry about the rolling door - the closer we get to the Extermination, the earlier I like to close! And you needn’t clomp, sweetpea. I can see your aura.”

“Oh,” said Leslie, unsure if this was a joke or not. “My aura?”

“Yes. It is orange and brown,” said Rosie, beckoning her closer. “Who is manipulating you?” Leslie felt her fur stand on end, and Rosie sat at her desk chair, comfortable in the stunned silence. “I’m sorry to spook you, poppet,” she said, “that’s merely what the brown indicates. The orange is good. You’re the creative sort, sociable when you have to be, and always chasing that something that makes your heart beat faster… even exchanges like this. But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To discuss your power?”

“Uh, y-yes. Yes, I am.”

“You have it, then?”

Leslie approached more slowly now, with caution. What if her aura advertised the nervousness she now felt? “Here you go,” she said, taking out Alastor’s handkerchief and sliding it across the desk. 

“Thank you,” Rosie said as she took it. She frowned. “What is this?”

“I put it in a bag, so you won’t have to touch it.”

“Put what in a bag?”

“It’s his hankie. But, it’s not clean. You probably don’t want to… Actually, let me wash it. Give it here, I’ll just wash it for you.”

Rosie’s puzzled frown began to clear. “DNA? His?”

“Afraid so. Please don’t touch it.”

“Ah! Even better. Thank you so much,” said Rosie. Then, in a move that was as decisive as it was demure, she tucked the bag down the front of her dress. Leslie felt the tiniest bit of comfort, knowing that even destructive overlords were not above storing things in their bras. “It’s genuine, of course,” Rosie stated. “You know I could have you destroyed for the next seventy years if it wasn’t.”

“Oh, definitely!” Leslie said with false cheer. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

“Yes! That’s the nice thing about Hell, isn’t it? We ladies can cut straight through the grease,” said Rosie, and took Leslie’s hand, “Ah, you’re a furry one.”

“Yeah,” Leslie huffed, “sadly. There’s no way to change my body, is there?”

“Not in the way you’d like!” Rosie laughed. “Now then, your reading. One of my powers is seeing the worth or value in things. Very handy for a seller of antiques! Ah yes, you’re easy. You keep it here in the muscle,” she mused. “I can tell you’re a physical person. Dancing. Moving to your lover’s needs.”

Leslie shivered. “Dancing,” she admitted. “Sure. I teach.”

“An outlet for negative emotions,” Rosie declared, “ _and yet,_ you prefer the old routines. Down here, at least. Hell brings out the anxiety in you. Improvisation is dangerous: to bare your soul accidentally? Unthinkable.”

This was too much. Leslie took her hand away. “I don’t like this,” she said. “This isn't a real reading, is it? You just grilled my friends for my personal information.”

“Friends? Dear, I don’t know your name. I never even touched you before now, not once.”

Oh God, that was true, wasn’t it? Far from reassuring her, this statement only made the reading more creepy. “Alright,” Leslie said, giving back her hand.

“Thank you. Hmmm. Yes, you’re very easy,” Rosie repeated, her eye sockets jiggling as though reams of information were flying before them. “Oh, the darkness,” she whispered, “such terrible darkness. How could anyone be redeemed in a place like this? You hope it could be you. In spite of all this adversity and so little evidence to suggest that your hard work will pay off… you still hope. The extermination will be hard. Even if you survive, not knowing how long you will be stuck here…”

Again, Leslie withdrew her hand. “Ohhh, I hate it.”

Rosie laughed. “Don’t worry, dear, everyone does this. Let me tell you your powers!”

“I don’t want you to. You’re looking at all my secrets.”

“Nonsense. Your hand, please.” Rosie snatched it back. “Now then. This dance of yours… already, you’ve found a way to turn it to your advantage. You give it meaning, make it… persuasive almost. You want to be taken seriously, not to be hurt, and you are trying _very_ hard to beguile a certain someone.” 

Beguile? Leslie screwed her face up. “That’s not…”

“Being as low-powered as you are,” Rosie interrupted, “it would take a while for this persuasion to work. But I feel you have willed it many, many times. How often, you and this person?”

Leslie and Alastor? She had no idea. Twenty or so times they’d danced together. If you included the times Alastor _watched_ her dancing, that number was even higher. The DVDs, the self-injuring pole dance… Come to think of it, Alastor had come out of nowhere to watch her that day. And he could identify her by movement alone when she performed with the troupe on a DVD. Could this be why? Some power she never realized she had?

“Your students,” Rosie asked, “I'd guess they are well-behaved. More than one would expect.”

“They’re getting better,” Leslie said, “but it’s…” She fell silent.

“And there is another power,” said Rosie, “less developed, but growing roots. People talk to you comfortably. You have a softness, a dependence, that makes these damned sinners let down their guard. Beware this power; it may get you in hot water with those who value their discretion.”

“Right,” Leslie said, simply. 

Then both of Rosie’s hands closed around hers. “What is this?” Rosie murmured, something like apprehension in her voice. “You have… This is ancient stuff... and you tried to hide it from me.”

“What?”

“Someone is taking your blood,” she said, “in relatively small volumes. Someone is healing you repeatedly.”

“Uh…” said Leslie.

Rosie lifted her head. “My dear, please tell me this is being done without consent. I know that sounds worse than the alternative, but…” She trailed off, and her jaw clenched. “This must be the manipulation I see in your aura. Your friend… he talked you into this?”

The room around them grew steadily darker; shadows stirred from every cranny, nook and crevice. They moved up on one side of the desk and down the other side, tipping unsteadily. Leslie stepped back. This shadow theater was making her seasick.

“I’d like to go now,” she said. 

A series of horrible scratches carved their way into the walls, with the sound of fingernails against wood. Leslie watched in horror as Rosie rose up, and her eye sockets grew larger, grew blacker than black velvet. Her pointed teeth became needly. 

“What is your name, sweetpea,” asked Rosie with barely-contained smiling anger, “and where might I find you and your friend? I only want to talk, and understand, of course! Let him explain to me what is going on.”

“You have the handkerchief; that’s all I’m giving you!” Leslie turned and sprinted for the door. This door opened towards her, so she wrenched it open and fell through, chased by the fingers of manifold penumbrae. The bell tinkled. At last, grounded by the cobblestone path outside! Leslie was in a heap, but she knew the danger was right behind her. A loud, high-pitched screech from inside the building made her jump. Getting up, she ran like a rabbit from the farmer’s gun, and didn’t stop until she fell onto the steps of the Happy Hotel.

o - o - o - o - o

The terror of visiting Rosie followed Leslie through a dance class and dinner, and even as she climbed the stairs to her room, passing Baxter in the hallway. _So he’s still at the hotel,_ she thought, _that’s interesting._ She collapsed on her bed, exhausted - and heard a faint rustling from under the pillow. 

The source of the rustling was a folded piece of paper with the letter P on the outside. Confused, she opened it nonetheless, and the handwriting was immediately recognizable, as was the scent of cologne spritz. Alastor.

 _My pet, my prey, my Persephone,_ the letter began, and Leslie felt warmth in her cheeks. It was the memory of being called Persephone the first time; that had been a good meeting, the bites notwithstanding.

_I never thanked you for your letter, about the record which was sent to space. Very interesting._

That letter never left her bedroom. Alastor must have stolen it when he took the DVDs.

 _On another note,_ he continued, _these past months have been extremely rewarding, and I think we can agree, you've grown more resilient as a result. Not all of us can wield considerable power. Resilience is next best. For myself, our agreement has been a tremendous game, an increasing challenge to keep you involved, and has given me a wonderful palette of new tastes._

_For these reasons, I feel we should extend our arrangement._

Leslie gulped.

_Think on it seriously, and think how you have me in perpetual torment with that lovely throat of yours. Think less of the pain of certain acts in the bayou, and more of the pleasure you received, and still stand to receive in return. You drive a hard bargain, but we shall iron out the details later._

_Please let go of the letter now, unless you want to be burned._

_H._

H for Hades. Leslie clutched her forehead, overwhelmed. He was asking to renew the contract. More months of biting and scratching - perhaps worse. More months of making her life a living-

The corner of the page caught fire, and Leslie squeaked and dropped it. As it landed, she tried to stamp it out, but to no avail. In seconds, there were only ashes. 

Renew the contract.

No. There was no way she could stand another day of enduring the injuries he wanted to inflict.

But he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Alastor had another fortnight to twist her arm, and being the seductive bastard he was, he might actually succeed. Then there was Rosie… he was sure to find out about that little situation. Either he’d offer Leslie protection from the Eyeless Horror in return for eating Leslie, or more likely, he’d punish her for giving Rosie the DNA she needed to find him. 

And why did Rosie want to find Alastor? Were they just former business partners? Old rivals? Old _flames?_ Why hadn’t Leslie considered this before?

Leslie had no idea how to play this. This was terrible. She was now connected to not one, but _two_ demons who destroyed their enemies for much less. Two dealmakers. Two wrathful spirits. She was a dead woman.

For ten minutes, Leslie tried tearfully to pack a bag and figure out where she was going to live from now on. She didn’t want to be on the streets when there were angels floating around, looking for sinners to smite, but there seemed to be no other choice. No friends to stay with. No other way to distance herself from Alastor. 

Then she had an idea: one of those twice-a-year sudden lightning strikes of inspiration. _Baxter._ Leslie jogged down the hallway, then downstairs to check for Baxter, then up to the third floor where, of course, he was just turning into his laboratory. 

“BAX!” she yelled. “HEY!”

He paused, hand on the doorknob, and peered through milk-bottle glasses. “Hello,” he said uncertainly. “Long time, no speaky.”

“Yes,” she said breathlessly - there was no time. “Listen, I need your help, OK? I… Jesus… sorry, long jog.”

“Take your time.”

“First of all,” she said, “I know.”

Now Baxter raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Do you know how many people have tried to threaten me with “I know”, dot dot dot, your dirty little secret, whatever? I need more than that, Flopsy.”

The truth was, Leslie didn’t know, but she suspected. “I know about you helping to bring down Porn Studios,” she said, then took a deep breath. Baxter looked suddenly pale. It was quite novel to be able to threaten someone with their secrets, she realized, and even more so to intimidate a demon with her superior height.

“How...?” he said, gills flaring.

“You’re the only person I know _Alastor_ knows who can partially destroy a building,” Leslie explained, “like the accidental lab explosion. And maybe you snuck around Porn Studios to plant… whatever it was you needed to plant. Be a shame if Valentino heard about it.”

Baxter raised his hands defensively. “Alright, alright! Look, what do you want from me?”

Leslie almost smiled; it actually _worked._ She peered past him, into the laboratory with its many tubes and vials and other scientific equipment. There was obvious demarcation on the wall, where the brick had been replaced, but otherwise the room was ship-shape. 

“This is going to sound fucking weird,” she said, “but I want you to make me sick.”

“Huh?”

“Do you have any viral cultures, something that’d make me bedridden for two weeks? At least two. Specifically me. I’m not going to infect anyone else, just me. If people ask how it happened, a wild rat bit me in the face. You won’t get in trouble, I promise.”

Baxter took a long time to process this. Eventually he frowned and retreated into the room, shaking his head. “You’re fucking crazy.”

Leslie followed him in. “But you can do it?”

“Of course,” he said, flinging open a drawer of spotty-looking petri-dishes and giving her a wink. “I’m a fucking _scientist._ ”


End file.
